Sunday, 8 March 2015

Sunday Poem


Drawn by a scent,
a body without bone—
move with the ease of silk. 
Upward, slugs seek
an overhang. 
Hermaphrodite contortionists
spin on a rope of mucous.
Entwined, dangling aerialists in courtship. 
The intrusive mind, endless swing
as if overtaken by a current.
Optical tentacles, skirt and mouth,
fringe against foot, press
in a knot that spins. 
The penis is in the slug’s head:
they both evert a phallus and tangle.
It can take hours
to unwind the appendages.
They drop like a seed
to its place on the earth.
From Proof (DC Books, 2014) by Larissa Andrusyshyn


David Godkin said...

Well crafted, but to what end, beyond the metaphoric recreation of thing?

David Godkin said...

I meant to say “a” thing, of course. dg

Unknown said...

On of my favourites from 'Proof'.