Is it edible then, like its satisfied kin?
Is it also killed by salt, before the seasoned butter?

Snails are travellers, their bag of organs
tied to their backs. A filling so rich that mantle and sac
fit the shell exactly. Between the walls
the calcium spikes and crystal stalks to stir the food.
They’re on the road, existing only of shell,
eyes and foot. Pilgrims with a forgotten goal.

What could I say to cheer you up?
They, the ramblers are aware of profit and loss.
Their shells are sold like jewellery around the neck
of small, decisive women. Currency, is what
they have become and symbol for death
and survival.  Are eaten and their shells
employed to store oil. They served
in strange brass bands. Their most secret
mission to deliver purple to
the Roman emperors. The smallest
show immense transparency:
mother-of-pearl miniature palaces
quiver at the first footfall. Gelatine
body, house of glass.
With goo they glue their loved ones
and shoot their arrows sensitively
into the other. You yield, you
are my garden snail. I taste and aim
my arrow at your sweetest parts. No salt,
not even a tip. I use my front one to lick you.