this bright orange-and-yellow polypore
is commonly known as
the chicken mushroom
because that’s how it tastes.
Not for any other reason.
It’s not like it’s scared or anything.
I mean, why would it be?
It has no thoughts or emotions,
no looming sense that it might have
made a terrible mistake.
The Night of the Art Show
I didn’t have to fake it.
My stomach hurt. For real.
After my parents left without me,
I texted Ian.
He borrowed his roommate’s car,
and we drove to the Atlas Diner,
where, in between stealing
my fries, he distracted me with stories
about his Ultimate team, his dorm,
his RA’s bearded dragon.
He’s a cool guy. You would love him.
(“Him,” of course, meant the lizard.)
He told me about his classes, that he was
thinking of dropping film studies,
since it meets at nine freaking a.m.
and on the first day they had to go around
and introduce themselves and name a favorite movie
and he couldn’t think of anything,
so he just said “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off,”
since his RA had played it for Eighties Night,
And this girl across from me literally groaned
and, like, rolled her eyes even though the professor
said we weren’t supposed to judge anyone’s picks,
but I was in a shitty mood anyway from waking up
so goddamn early, so I was all, okay, let’s hear what
this chick has to say, and she was all, No disrespect—Can
you believe that?—but that movie’s elitist AF,
and we shouldn’t root for some privileged white guy
who does whatever he wants and gets away with it
because that’s, like, what’s wrong with America.
I told him I thought she had a point, and he said she
probably did, but whatever, he’s still dropping the class
because he needs his sleep.
When We Turned onto My Street
The car was in the driveway.
Want me to come in with you?
That’s okay. I mean, really,
what’s the worst they can do?
He gave my shoulder an awkward pat.
They Were So Mad . . .
Unbelievable, Jorie.
What the hell were you thinking?
We know you’ve been upset,
and obviously we’re sympathetic.
If you need help, we’ll get you in to see Doctor Hahn.
But, no matter what, we’re your parents.
We deserve your respect.
Being upset doesn’t give you the right
to lie to us.
We don’t care how badly you
wanted to see Ian.
. . . About That?
After I had spent months
building a trap, it’s like
the bear shuffled right past it,
grumbling about the weather,
and while it was kind of a relief
not to have to confront
a caged animal,
it was also a major bummer
that the bear was still out there,
and also—also
WTF?
Did they not even read it?
Excuses
They claimed the art room was hot and crowded
and they didn’t want to stand there blocking the view
of all my adoring fans and, besides, Dad forgot his glasses,
and did I know where Wayne ordered those pork dumplings
(The Jade Dragon?) because they were delicious, and who
painted Elmo as the Mona Lisa (Aaron Kratz), that was Mom’s
other favorite besides mine, that one and the sculpture of
llamas doing yoga (Tiffany Yan) and though they were disappointed
in my behavior that night, they were also really really proud
of me and as soon as I brought “No Matter What” home they promised
they would read every word.
But Why Wait for the Copy
when they can read
the original?
The Next Morning Before School
I go in their room,
shut the door,
dig down through the layers,
probe the corners,
scrape the bottom,
take the whole drawer out,
flip it over on the bed.
Somehow worse than
finding the letter is
not.
Regeneration
Once Ian asked me if I was ever tempted
to chop off Tony’s tail and watch it grow
back, and I was, like, seriously?
and he was, like, not even the tip?
And I was, like, I’m not going to
dignify that with an answer,
and he was, like, but that’s the kind
of shit scientists do, and I was, like,
first of all, I’m not a scientist, and second
of all, Tony’s my pet, not my lab rat,
and third of all, even scientists need
valid reasons to deliberately harm
their test subjects; they don’t perform
experiments just because they can.
Regeneration, Part Two
Unlike a tail, a letter isn’t living
tissue, with cells that spring
into action to erase the damage.
Once it’s gone, it’s gone. Like a car
reflected in a rearview mirror,
you might doubt it was ever there,
unless
you have
photographic evidence.
The Solution
When I call Ian later
and tell him what happened,
ask him what he thinks
I should do next,
he says, How about if I
forget it? Because even if
I confronted Dad about
the letter, he’d probably
make some weak-ass excuse
and Mom would believe him,
and anyway, it’s not my
fucking responsibility
to force my parents to
own up to their shit,
so why don’t I just chill
and come to a party
at his friend’s town house
on Friday? It’s going to be lit.
9:06 a.m.
Though it may seem
advantageous
for a sloth to remain
forever clinging to
the safety of her tree,
she can’t.
There will always
come a time when
she has no choice
but to climb
d
o
w
n
to
pee.
Sloth vs. Ladder
Squeak
Fragrant clitocybe
Squeeeeeeak
Garlic marasmius
Squeeeeeeeeeeeeak
Hedgehog mushroom
Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeak
Inky cap
No need
for a J
because, hey,
it looks like
I made it!
So Long, Conor
This is definitely
“Good-bye,”
not “See you later.”
It’s been . . .
memorable?
Ha.
But seriously,
you seem like
a decent human being,
and I will always
be grateful you
didn’t wake up.
Field Instructions for Navigating a Post-Party Bathroom
Pick a soothing mental image.
Caribbean sunset. Alpine meadow.
Breathe through mouth.
Look straight ahead. Never down.
Hover.
Operate fixtures with elbows or wrists,
preferably sleeve-covered.
Wash with the hottest water tolerable.
Do not expect soap.
Remember, towels present a biohazard.
Dry hands on pants.
If conditions are truly unendurable,
be prepared to maybe find
a potted plant?
Or hold it.
Bloody Mary
My reflection reminds me
of all those times
Esther and I held hands
and lit a candle,
chanting her name three times—
Bloody Mary
Bloody Mary
Bloody Mary—
to summon her,
and yet she
never appeared.
I acted disappointed,
but was secretly relieved
that the scary thing in the mirror
always turned out to be
my own stupid face.
Two Texts
I’m Googling bus schedules
in the parking lot
when I get two texts,
one from Esther—
I’m sorry too
for not trying harder
to find you last night
one from Kat—
Ho I want details!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Three Responses
It’s okay.
Not sure what to do
about Ian. He’s really mad
and
Not much to tell!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Except Ian hates me
and
they both write back
????????????????
As Much As It Literally Physically Pains Me
I tell them what he said.
They Mean Well
Kat:
Esther:
Screw him.
Can you blame him?
Correction: don’t.
He’s still into you.
That ship has sailed.
You can’t just turn him off.
That’s you on deck
He’s not an air conditioner.
waving bye-bye.
What he said is awful
That’s Ian back on shore
but what you did is awfuller,
crying his eyes out.
maybe? I mean look at it
Hooking up with Conor
from Ian’s perspective.
was genius.
Say he broke up with you
You forced him to put on
and then you had to watch him
his big-boy glasses and see
ho it up with one of your friends.
that you’ve moved on.
How would you feel?
King Bolete vs. Bitter Bolete
The two look a lot alike:
the one you dream of finding,
and the one you always find.
By now you should have learned
not to be too optimistic,
but you can’t help believing,
right up until the taste
pollutes your mouth,
that this time will be different.
Easy Answers
Question: How was the party?
Answer: It was ok.
Question: What time will you be home?
Answer: Don’t know
Question: Need anything from Rite-Aid?
Answer: Toothpaste and shampoo
See how easy it is
to be honest with Mom
and still not tell her
the truth?
Hard Question
Could you come pick me up?
And then,
(aspen scaber stalk blue milky cap cloudy clitocybe deadly galerina)
the confession:
I’m not at Kat’s.
Gazelle Attack
We don’t talk
until we get to the diner.
Mom switches off the engine,
takes an audible breath.
Care to tell me what happened?
Oh, you know. The usual party stuff.
Musical chairs. A bouncy castle.
Creepy clowns.
No piñata? She grins. You
must have been devastated.
While it’s true
the gazelle has strong swift legs
enabling it to run from danger,
it also has extremely sharp horns.
You believe me, right?
Because isn’t that your thing?
Believing anything anyone ever tells you?
You’re right. It’s not. I start scrolling through
my photos. And neither is this letter from
Teresa.
When I Finish the Story
of how Ian and I found the letter
and what I wanted to do with it
and what I finally did
and how I felt before the art show
and how I felt after
when it seemed like all that work
had been a waste
and what I would have done next
if Dad hadn’t been a total
slimy chicken mushroom
and thrown the letter out,
she hands back my phone and says,
Except he didn’t, sweetheart.
I did.
Breakfast Special
It’s not something she’s proud of.
But she says she goes through
Dad’s drawers Because I refuse
to be blindsided again.
I haven’t touched
my banana pancakes. Have you ever
found anything else?
Nope. She leans over, dips her bacon
in my syrup. And he assures me that
I won’t.
I snort. Like you can trust him.
Maybe I can’t. She pauses
while the waiter refills her coffee.
Look, he says he’s changed
and, for now, I believe him.
As she’s paying the check, I ask,
What if he hurts you again?
Oh, don’t worry. She smiles. He
will. Hopefully not in the same way, but
it will happen. She rises from the booth.
Holds out her hand. I take it. She pulls me
up. And I will hurt him. Because what
can I say? We’re human.
The Mycophobe
She’s so afraid
of being poisoned
that it causes her
to avoid the woods,
the produce section,
her own backyard
after heavy rain.
Sure, it makes sense
to be careful.
Sure, some species
are bad news.
On the other hand . . .
think of everything
she will miss
by not accepting
the risks and giving
mushrooms
a chance.
10:43 a.m.
Mom says if I ever decide I want to
tell her about last night, she won’t judge.
I rest my head against the car window
and say, Thanks. Maybe later. Right now
I’m working through an idea for
a new piece, tentatively titled
“Mycophilia 4-Evuh.”
Too extreme? Probably. A little.
Oh, well, I’ll keep thinking
after I get home,
feed Tony,
text Ian
that I want to talk,
crawl int
o
my bed,
take a nap.
Mycorrhizal, Revised
By definition,
the relationship is give-and-take.
The tree gives carbon.
The fungus takes it
in exchange for water
and other essentials.
Is there always an equal exchange?
No.
Still, they keep reaching out.
They make the connection.
It’s not a perfect arrangement,
but
it’s how they survive.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to many, and super-extra grateful to the following:
Tina Dubois and Martha Mihalick. You must have thought your patience would literally have to be infinite.
Megan Atwood and Laura Ruby. Your generous tarot readings kept assuring me that everything would be fine, and I think that’s what made it true.
Anne Ursu. All those years ago I didn’t realize how badly I needed you to pick me to help you with the “Writing the Unreal” workshop at the Highlights Foundation. I will forever be thankful that you did.
Ron Koertge. You may not remember the time you were the only one who called to make sure I hadn’t been swept away by a tornado in St. Louis, but I do.
Alysa Wishingrad, Gail Upchurch, and Phoebe North. Keep the conversation and the cans of rosé comin’!
The staff of Crafted Kup in Poughkeepsie, New York. You continue to put up with all the adjectives in my latte order and never kick me out when, clearly, my drink is gone, and I’m just pretending to sip from an empty cup.
Chris Drury. While Googling “spore print art”—a pastime more people should try!—I found your website, www.chrisdrury.co.uk, and got lost in your incredible environmental artwork. Thanks for your vision.
Everyone at Greenwillow, especially design wizard Sylvie Le Floc’h, for whom “Can you make this poem look like a destroying angel?” would never be a ridiculous request, and managing editor Lois Adams, who diligently forages and always finds what I miss.