"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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