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.