Mushrooms, too, decay by Rick Hollon
Chasing cigarette ghosts
from the bed your mother gave us
baking powder and essential oil
shaken in nightly seance—
a stranger gives me a hundred for it.
I need to eat. You aren’t here.
Milkweed husk and goldenrod
picked that last sunny October
you twined them pod and panicle
autumn ward agrace our window—
you snap the curtain rod
in your haste to be rid of them.
Picturebook yellow raincoats
you bought us a matching pair
to waddle arm in arm in April puddles
ducklings fat on happy plans—
you never even wore yours.
I pitch them in the Dumpster.
Mushrooms, too, decay.
You sketch them, knowing
you and I won’t see them again.
Rick Hollon (they/fey) is an intersex, nonbinary, queer author, editor, nature photographer, and parent currently adrift in the eastern United States. Feir stories and poetry have appeared in Prismatica, Green Ink Poetry, Corvus Magazine, and elsewhere. Find them on Twitter @SailorTheia.