To A Garden Slug by Aimee LaFon

The flowers 
are dying tonight, swarmed by 
                     a hoard of gluttonous slugs. 
The daisies spoiled.                                 Marigolds, long robbed of 
                     ruddy hair. Bluebells 
decapitated. The enduring dandelion 

Balks, no wish 
granted, no breeze to assume.
                     Some brackish fume of loss swarms 
the bleeding foxglove,                                          soberly reaching, 
                     slow and inert, down 
into the dusk. All that sap consumed by your shapeless 

body; a 
glitteringly dull albeit
                     undeveloped mass, ever 
seeking an end to                               leafless stalks, searching 
                     for an even match, 
perhaps, an eater that devours with the same ruin;

The beer can 
I planted in the soil, 
                     is now encapsulating 
what was yours, writhing            embodiment of 
                     sentience, stopping, 
heaving between toadstool spores, dragging you into a

Stupor, your id-
ea lost in fermented pools, 
                     livid fist resurfacing, 
fades, returns heavy                    as I watch over 
                     your body. I can 
only mourn what I remember. Know this: I’m sorry.

I fill the 
can with a shroud of black mulch.
                     Silently find what’s left of 
the daisies. Pick off                              the stems, one final 
                     selfish offering made 
with out fear. Dead petals to greet another wasted 
                                                                                         life, the riotous night now over.