Snail
by Tita Lacambra-Ayala
Home is where the slug is
where the hair does not grow
nor distance trod with feet
speech is silence silvering
tracks on green, unseen.
Artist of the gnaw and nibble
dissolving with scummy spittle
the frantic bud, the speechless bean
the squat pacific tuber under ground.
Raping the dew, seducing
lichen from the walls without a quibble
holding a vegetation reign over
the garden, balding.
How rout a brainwashed enemy
curdling into his shell when touched
melting into little yellow soldiers
when crushed?
