Snails

March 24, 2008

Annie Dillard wrote
about them once, how they followed
a circular trail of slime
for weeks without changing
direction, their reluctance to alter
course almost killing them off,
the need of sustenance reaching the critical
before any would deviate,
even the slightest, to survive.
I know how that feels — a process
ancestral, intestinal, ingrained;
fleshy and dense as a slow organ
producing its juices, leaving a scrawl
across my front porch thick
and tremulous as an old widow’s signature
on a bad check, or a trail of relatives
honing in for Christmas dinner.

by Cynthia Cox

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  1. Jo
    March 25, 2008 at 5:14 am

    Really enjoyed this…….that last line’s a beauty.

  2. March 25, 2008 at 7:05 am

    “a process
    ancestral, intestinal, ingrained;
    fleshy and dense as a slow organ
    producing its juices,”

    That, I thought, was absolutely brilliant. The whole was intriguing and will need a few more visits to fully appreciate.

  3. March 28, 2008 at 4:54 pm

    “tremulous as an old widow’s signature/ on a bad check” is wonderful! Nice poem! Don’t you just love Annie DIllard!!!

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