Slug Populations
by Esther Mazakian

Not realizing it yet amidst errant sheets of rain needling the pines
but recognizing the absorbing absurdity of
capturing water in a veil –

secretly in love and secretly in Scarborough.
We stood
myopic
marks, viscid feelers,
peace signs
outside my parent’s condo and you were smoking (also a secret). Metal clouds gunning
catfish-bellies of
pithy brine overhead; later I’d find you were gay. Blackened
slush
and a season of slop crusted the walkway,

but despite the weight of February, the old lawn was
rising, like this war, this passing self-sufficiency – neuter, tight-lipped, sullen

under a rolled-up awning
new
snow
collating
on our glutinous heads.