common name

tell me your mushroom name
& i'll tell you mine.
i was in a field of pig's ears
laughing with chicken of the woods. 
an old purple man in his
television face. dreams are just
spore breaths. gills opening
on a buttered moon. a bullet train 
through a mycelium to the other
face you keep in the lock box. 
i went to the heron grove.
they were giant. towered over everything.
all i saw was their legs. i begged
for my name. i groveled for days.
maybe it was years. when you are yearning
every moment feels just a little
too long. like you could open
your mouth & find nothing 
but chanterelles. a goat's lute bleating
& beating on the forehead 
of a sleeping woman shrouded
in moss. the birds finally spoke
through the creek. they said,
"ghost's halo." i wept with joy
& now you know me too.
i have given you my laughter tongue
& you can wrap it in butcher paper
& take it down to the dead tree
to search for me. my spore print
is purple. i ring whenever it rains.
press my legs as deep
into the belly of the forest
as they will go. there, we kick
as if treading water. as if hearing
again for the first time 
what a forager should call us
when, with his knife, he cuts off
a hand to feast in the feathered shade.