I blew up this morning
all over the front yard,
left my retinas
hanging off the French violets,
spots of lung on the tiger lilies,
my bones clean-splintered and lodged in the rock wall
where I saw a leopard slug, at least six inches long,
on a trash bag left there on Tuesday night.
I thought I’d seen everything there was to see
around here, and here was something unknown to me:
long and shiny and mottled in black and brown, so unlike
what I’d learned of familiar slugs, it curled into a C
as I shone the big light on it, and I was fascinated
by its spots and its slick shine, the clear trail
behind it that traced its path up the wall
and onto the bright yellow plastic.
I think that when I turned my back
it set a bomb in me,
and now I am in pieces, and glad of that too,
since the whole man I was had been so closed
to what might still be out there, right under my nose,
that this can only be an improvement
on the past. I haven’t seen one since
but I am looking now, under leaves, in crevices
I’d always passed by without thinking, hoping
the manticore is sleeping under the porch, or that
the gryphon is perched by the flower box —
or better still, that my tongue has landed close
to something from an unknown mythos,
and is learning to pronounce its marvelous name.
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For information on these:
Dark Matter 