If you catch me I am slippery as
a black bar of soap
but with teeth.
You don't want to find me.
I am the slime on the surface of the swamp
I drizzle through your hands like
lime-green icing
You do not want me on your birthday cake

You do not want me in your bed.
I am the ashes swept
into chimney crevices;
the echo of your footsteps
when you're out walking
alone on October nights.
I make your shiny baby cry
And spring is my worst enemy.

Sometimes I sleep under your rug
and bite your howling dog
with ten million tiny teeth.
I have so many teeth.
Your children know this
that is why they pinch.
Your husband does not believe in me
but he feels me when he's sleeping.

I grin through pumpkins
and dance with dry corn
in drier wind.
You do not want me in your coffee.

You see, I make things warp
I will pull your dainty features into
assymetry that will make your
fat children scream.

I am a carcinogen. I am the orange light of sunset
that blinds you to the
puppy running across the road
I drink its whimpering marrow.
You do not want me in your bones.

I coil with snakes and rabbits
warm and filthy underground.
When I hear your footsteps I will
seep up through hoary ground
worm into your ankles and
make you bitter.