Poetry

Necrotic Erotic and the Trans Gospel of Mushrooms

12/16/2020

I’ve realized there is something of the necrotic in--

this.

The way the termites chew their sketch-path trails

through my carefully grown rings

of identity.

She is dead.

An act of destruction, a grieving

we mourn her.

And walk light-path-slow into the open arms of ancestors

who have been waiting

ever since you were first breathed morning sunshine beam-trick

dust-mote thick into your lungs

and let out that first scream.

I am of death,

and I am learning to love this.

Because I have learned to love the mushrooms,

purple-hood and lace-gown

and the moss carpet which they strut down

paparazzi-less

because the girl has died

and we grieve her--

mourn the woman she wanted to become,

the way her hair caught wind and danced with it,

the gentle grace she walked with.

Now, I am here

not one thing or the other

(animalia, plantae)

not this life or the next

but the tunnel between

and the light that flows through it