Bonny, Bonny Jockland

I found a snail in Granny Moray’s garden.
Like wee Guggenheims congregated amongst
Moss mountains and stone.
We became fast friends
And though he was clearly of a bigger, different world,
My imagining of his love for me was proportionate.
Like clouds smother the life force intermittently
He met the earth now and then.
I tried not to prefer his poking out to when he hid
For I know my shell was strong once too.
How we grow to favor darkness
When our flesh feels exposed.
Myelin pulsing bare like maggots,
This is why I’m shy.
Mrs. Reid’s body rotting in the skip.
The salt from garbage penetrates her unfelt wounds
And like the snail she waits
For the moment she is found.
Just as I loved that snail with such an honest lack of prejudice, I hate Mr. Reid with an honest curiosity for his perversion.
His mug-shot in the morning paper,
Middle finger up

And his baby at home,
His eldest daughter’s child.