Slipping
I
squeeze myself into the tiniest opinions, like those
octopi
who slip their tanks by wringing
their
sleek skins like a washcloth, then coasting down drainpipes.
Sayonara, suckers: Fair and square, they’re gone.
I’m
not out for a soft landing, just one
that
will whisk me down-current
with a mute
and ruthless efficiency.
It’s
what I’m good at, being small.
A slip of a thing, they used to say and
now
I
really am. Catch me if you can. I’ll slither
through
any crevice lickety-split. It’s my superpower,
to
go at any time. After all these years the contortions
don’t
even hurt anymore. I’m a human
oil
slick, lubricious and covert. Ask me
anything.
--Kristen McHenry
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