To join the web club of people who promote universal recognition of slithering, you must obey rules. Specific appendages jeopardize acceptance: fins, wings, or flippers. Think earthiness with a watery slip. Thankfully, this community accepts a certain playfulness. Advocates sell t-shirts with pictures of clouds riding a bicycle and wind bending over waterfalls. Cheating to achieve a cheap effect with soap, slime, banana peels, olive oil, detergents, and mud is heresy. Speed is not a constraint. Your slitherer may exist in one blink of an eye or move toward you in fractal dimensions of geologic fault zones. The rules flex when memories are captured—as long as they are never deprived of water or caged with vermin. What I know of breathing is too jittery for slithering, so I quit halfway through the application. I’m waiting to see someone slither into a grave.
Tricia Knoll is an Oregon poet whose new book, Ocean’s Laughter, combines lyric and eco-poetry to examine change over time in a small town on Oregon’s north coast. Website: triciaknoll.com