10-From the Garden

I come in from the garden and I’m covered

in slugs. Tiny slabs of snot with antennae waving

slowly moving over my sandaled

feet, pausing in confusion at trying to pass

a particularly thick black ankle hair

navigating the rough etched surface

of a heavy Tibetan silver anklet.

I don’t touch my hair because

I don’t want to know they’re there, wrapped in tangles

dreadlocks with chewy centers.

I pull my clothes off by the washing machine

and start the hot rinse cycle immediately, reconciling

my guilt at running the washing machine

with only two items of clothing in it

with images of hordes of horrible soft bodies

tumbling through the soapy water with my clothes

hopefully boiled alive. If there were more clothes

in the mashing machine, the slugs would be trapped

throughout the load, might find sanctuary

in sweater pockets and socks

might make it out

alive.