A feminist journal of art, writing and resistance
it just creeps up slowly
like a snail in the moonlight
goes from the garden
to your front door
knocks and asks to come in
no one resolves on january first
to let more snails in
but somehow
here you are
letting the damn thing drag
its fibonacci shell over the threshold
to take a hold of your heart
you tried it once before
twice, truth be told,
and somehow those snails grew
in the warm comfort of your home
outgrew their shells
became slugs
lying around on the couch all day
eating your ketchup potato chips
complaining about the way you folded the towels
monopolizing the remote
smacking down all your ideas
with their slimy tails
until you chased them out
with a beer bottle
what makes you think this snail
will be any better
