Eena Eena Eena
grits in your sandwiches for days but you can't complain because it was your bathing suit after all. I also know how to close my eyes and turn invisible and then fly around like a bat getting tangled up in people's hair. When I came home she said that she was bad in citizenship too. Our whole family on her side were loners, is what she said. I pictured them chopping wood in a clearing with their backs to each other and their axes pumping over their shoulders and down thunk to the block. I pictured them standing out in the snow with their hands on the fence. She said I got it from her like I got my hair and my beautiful fingers. She has beautiful fingers. They are long and white and can play the piano, pressing down each key and lifting up. I have useful fingers. I dig with them. I roll sticks around. I stroke slugs down their cold spotted backs, watch them shrink away from my beautiful beautiful finger that can press down on them until they press down on themselves and then lift up, soaring away into the air until it is too far for them to see. Until everything is free again and clear.
Behind the 'fridgerator there was a piece of glass Miss Lucy sat upon it and brol<e her big fat SoMETIMES IT RAINS. Not enough to make puddles or sting your skin when the drops bounce off, but half-way there. Enough to make the world damp and pulpy. When it rains like that I go out into the back yard and take off my shoes and take off my socks and put my socks in my shoes and put them both under the rain-spout, just in case there's a flood. When it rains like that the slugs come out. They slide up onto the wood of the fence. They curve over the tops of the stones. They glue themselves to the rose stems and the tomato plants and slick long x's over the top of the brick pile that is going to be a fish pond where the fish will circle and make faces and I will tickle them until they giggle bubbles. Dad says. Tiny yellow slugs cling to the grass, big tiger slugs ooze over the patio. When you touch a slug's eye he pulls it all the way back into his skull but you can't learn how. When you touch a slug's back he flinches away from your finger and around your finger at the same time. There are things I can do. Prick the tips of my fingers on the holly bush. Mash holly berries under my thumb. Scrub my hair over my eyes until! am wild. Tip back back back so I am face-to-face with the sky. Stomp in the mud and watch it burp up between my toes. Sing to the slugs. All my songs I sing to the slugs, and they sing back slug songs because that is what they have. They have to because I am their queen. I am Slugeena and I stomp in the mud and tear up the grass and snort air out of my Summer - Fall 2006
The Literary Digest of the University of Idaho