Beneath the necrotic oak
the Death
Caps flourish their flesh-
umbrellaed skulls
in the inhuman hours
of the morning—
each a metabolic tomb
siphoning.
Multifoliate
despite the heaving, pulse-
less floor
these watchful doormen
of our final address
flattening their haunches
in the loam.
*
Nine days old—
the doe’s early pelt reflects
and drags
for the unfurling, crucial
nutrient strike:
Great Atrophy / spore
of decay / threshing eye-
let / silver gill.
The colony wants nothing
more in return.
Belle Biscotti is a young poet/writer from Down Under who enjoys writing horror and science fiction. She wrote this poem as an homage to mushrooms. Her work has appeared in The Village Observer.
