The scientist hunts slugs 
by torchlight, crouching 
low to find them on 
star-maps of sky-at-nights;
between froghopper spit 
and spikes of cuckoo pint.

Prods their soft bodies using 
the bent prongs of an old fork 
till they fall, stiffly
sinking in a silent agony 
of milky froth brought 
to a dirty melting point.
The cool night air tastes acrid with terse notes of sodium and chlorine, salt’s corrosive tang that catches in her throat and leaves her with a thirst no drink can slake.

An earlier version published by The Utopia Project #1

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