Poem by Danielle Weeks

Snails smaller than a fingernail
on the side of the tank, mouths
pressed to the glass. Real glass,
heavy and tempered. The tank

is a risk, could suddenly burst
and flood the hardwood floors,
the corner of the living room.
Would you believe I’m jealous

of this snail hanging in solitude?
Such a carefully planned world
made clean at least once a week
while the snail breathes in new

water, waiting outside the world.
Imagine such a thing: the universe
lifting every planet, moon, and sun,
wiping off their leaves and stones

with a soft cloth, giving the unsure
bodies a place to rest outside what
they already know, air to breathe
with nothing of themselves in it.