"Headlights on Leopard Slugs" by Taylor Brunson
shine, mucous lodestar
wound together by hunger
in the walkway, pavement wet
with web of slime, glimmer
of salivation over the body.
See already: wings sampled
by ants at sunrise, tissue
softened in last night’s rain,
how flesh is unbodied
and kissed unrecognizable
against cool concrete,
pulped under appetite―
slugs’ bladed tongues
savor bat by starlight,
mount its meat to slick
and claim what remains,
only to withdraw below lawns’
blanket of damp needles,
away from a dawn unaware
of the small fur, small bones
they bury beneath their mouths,
before I come in to bed,
before I lay this body
on top of yours.
Taylor Brunson is a poet living in Chapel Hill, North Carolina. Her work has recently been featured in Non.Plus Lit, The Daily Drunk Mag, perhappened, and Dwelling Literary. She serves as an assistant poetry editor for Four Way Review and an assistant nonfiction editor for Nashville Review. Taylor can be found on Twitter, @taylor_thefox.
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