Mixed Feelings About My Contribution to Humanity

There are days in the fall when
on the paths through the park

slugs everywhere are crossing.
I come upon them stretched out

to their longest lengths,
trailing their cursive tracks,

and I stop, stoop, and I pick them up,
their soft, wet bodies contracting.

I set them down gently on the other side,
in the new grass

or the soft, dead leaves.
And then there are other days—

days we’ve been late to school
because none of the clean pants

are comfortable, because
a fraction of toast

has been left on the plate
but cannot be cleared.

Days when doors have been slammed
or books held open, and I am tired

of asking for socks and shoes,
tired of wondering over the whereabouts

of rain boots.
On these days, I get to the park

and see the biker
skimming down the path,

the dog’s damp nose, his slip
of indiscriminate tongue,

and I don’t stop. I look at the slugs
and say to each one of them,

Good luck, buddy.
Good fucking luck.




Reprinted from The Unreliable Tree. Copyright © 2025 by Margot Kahn. Published by Curbstone Books/Northwestern University Press. All rights reserved.