In Praise of Fungi
While here, let’s stitch our lives with thread soaked
in extractions of lion’s mane and reishi, propagate
only spores that do not diminish us above ground,
sponge on the dead for advice as a new form of love.
We’ll forage for delicacies thriving in residuum,
born of destruction—burn-scar morels in the ashen
craters of oak trees, cordyceps sprung
from the bodies of ghost moth caterpillars.
I’ll learn how to best cook each species so its tang
fires up each bud in our tongue.
If, past my expiration date, you identify the mushroom
sprouting from where my abdomen once whirred
with pleasure, hunger, or our son’s amniotic babble,
do not record it for posterity. Touch its gills and call it
simply fungus, this swift, porous, lustful
exploit above ground.
MIHAELA MOSCALIUC is the author of the poetry collections Cemetery Ink, Immigrant Model, and Father Dirt. Read more.