Corrosion
A salted banana slug—path-blocker,
garden thief—unlayers itself.
I watch as it rips
its skirt into rags too small
even for the coat of many colors.
Its mantle spills away like halcyon rain
down a basement window.
I want to disappear secrets
that keep showing up—the sand dollar I stole,
the day I mimicked my best friend’s bent hands.
Or the ones I don’t even know yet—
who got beat up, sent away
for their own good, who got told
their mother would stop loving them.
I shake salt on my pale hand,
let it trail up my forearm. Salt burns
the slug. It will lose 27,000 teeth.
I am the witch that can melt
all the danger away.
garden thief—unlayers itself.
I watch as it rips
its skirt into rags too small
even for the coat of many colors.
Its mantle spills away like halcyon rain
down a basement window.
I want to disappear secrets
that keep showing up—the sand dollar I stole,
the day I mimicked my best friend’s bent hands.
Or the ones I don’t even know yet—
who got beat up, sent away
for their own good, who got told
their mother would stop loving them.
I shake salt on my pale hand,
let it trail up my forearm. Salt burns
the slug. It will lose 27,000 teeth.
I am the witch that can melt
all the danger away.
May / June 2023
Deborah Bacharach is the author of two full length poetry collections, Shake & Tremor (Grayson Books, 2021) and After I Stop Lying (Cherry Grove Collections, 2015). Her poems, book reviews and essays have been published in Poetry Ireland Review, New Letters and Poet Lore among many others.
Art: Jennifer Peart. Two Bedroom One Sonic Shower, oil on canvas, 36"x48"