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.

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