The Summer of Slugs
 
It was the summer of slugs.
Every day leeching and sucking
the glistening streets like
fat wet fingers
of a dead man
long gone cold.
 
I saw them meet
on dog shit.
A congregation.
Mucus and slime,
chewing the fat,
voraciously.
 
That summer
the slick of catarrh
in my throat
never left me.
 
And still they came
relentless,
draining the juice, the fat,
the fruit of our summer,
sliming from the bogs
overpowering the wasps
the butterflies, the moths
squatting and sucking
till they were senseless.
 
One night I lay awake
and thought. What if
these slow oiled thumbs
grow fat like boas.
What if in the dark
they ambush the house
with their rancid mouths,
slide into our throats,
make us silent.

Elaine Baker

If you have any comments on this poem,  Elaine Baker  would be pleased to hear from you.