By Rose Power
Long has fungi fruited in the pit of my stomach.
Long have I severed the stems, like umbilical cords,
And writhed like a babe in your arms.
I wish to gorge myself on sleep.
You know I am hungry to die.
My mouth waters for the bitter taste;
Scorched skin fearing the sun,
And yet I pull away.
Forsake the haste of time, you say,
And interlace your limbs with the string-vines.
Let your axons fuse with the lattice of mycelium
That trembles under your moss bed.
Debase yourself, and come home.