I DON’T WANT TO BE A WOMAN
Charlotte Murray
After Fae Horsley
I want to be a slug.
I want to meet my glistening doppelgänger
on a hardness of branch, our bodies
mirror images of each other,
slippery palindromes.
I want to feel the damp sheet of evening
drawn loosely around our coupling:
not two halves locked in a semblance of whole,
but a full set in ourselves. Each part of us
understanding each part of the other.
I want us to marble the dark mulch
with tiny wet eggs. Two carryings, two layings,
my slime coating both. Afterwards, I want to sprawl
like a miniature seal on a beach of moss.
Just a slug. Not a gender.