Sunday, May 14, 2017

Slipping



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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