spore print

i ask you why we know
so little about mushrooms 
& you say, "i think people
are scared of them."
it's early evening
& i follow you through
the ferns & the forest brush.
i feel a kinship with mushrooms
because it is a queer feeling
to be delightfully misunderstood. 
rotted logs. swarms of beetles.
from here grows purple mushrooms 
& white mushrooms & mushrooms
that look like alien hearts.
we looked for mushrooms the first time
we went into the woods together.
you bend down. touch the neck
of a mushroom. pluck them
from the earth. turn caps over
in your hands. a finger
across gills. for a long time
this was as close as i could get
to kissing you. watching how
you undo the soil & the earth. 
now, i take your hand.
kiss your shoulder. we smell
like bug spray & dead leaves 
& i love it & i always want more.
i want to say, "can we live
off only mushrooms?"
in the cabin
you show me how 
one mushroom repairs 
its own gills with a latex.
you hold your pocket knife 
& taste the bitter secretion,
spitting it out in the sink.
you tell me none of them
are edible.
a basket of mushrooms.
i picture their spores 
like tiny altar bells. 
you lay each cap down 
on a piece of paper. cover them
with another. a blanket
for the mushroom skulls.
when i lay next to you i feel like this.
like a mushroom cap 
laying down all 
the language i have. the mushrooms
& face down saying,
"i love you i love you
i love you" along with me.