Slug Poem Gone Wrong

Several months back

I began writing a poem about a slug I killed

with salt when I child. The poem

quickly devolved into a Morton Salt history lesson

and advertisement.

The poem’s initial intent

was to parallel my somewhat innocent

torturous slug salience

to the George Floyd atrocity.

As I sit here in reflection of the aforementioned,

I realize I could have easily just written:

when I was a child

I killed a slug

by sprinkling salt

on its supple body.

Killing the slug

made me feel

quite terrible.

I imagine police

officers feel

not too good

after they kill

another human,

regardless of

guilt, innocence,

or other circumstance.

(The act of killing

carries its own burden.)

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