Three Poems

Holly York

Fungi make worlds; they also unmake them.

There are lots of ways to catch them in the act.

        -Merlin Sheldrake, Entangled Life

A soft boom bounces the window as I

begin my salute to the still unrisen

sun. Half-knowing what I’ll see I ease

the shade aside to look below. Flattened

on the patio floor, a spread of wings.

A feisty bluejay fought his reflection

and clearly the window won. Gnarled roots

and fragrant woody stems of rosemary,

dead from December’s freeze, await collection.

Mycelium Internet gets the word

out to the trees. Leyland cypress extends

a branch to magnolias in grief. Merlin

conjures Pleurotus to eat through his words,

so oyster mushrooms bloom from his book, cover

and pages. He eats them there on YouTube,

thus making them human. With regret’s

hesitation and small scoop in hand, I

peer through the shades to gauge the small corpse

I’ll return to Earth’s fungi. The bird is gone.

Rootbound in Atlanta

The urban oak drapes moss-velvet

roots between roadway and lawn.

The rest are hidden underground.

Scarlett appeared in a green velvet gown

she had sewn from drapes to impress Rhett

who thought she looked lovely in the dress

but her work-roughened hands. . .

Tomorrow is another day. I’ll think about it then.

Between sidewalk and road, I saw a giant foot,

velvet majesty wedged between concrete

fields. Once someone planted a sapling

there with plenty of room to grow, they thought,

but now the roots are stuck in traffic,

molded into human shape, a bound foot

beside passing footfalls when they should

ray around, reflect the crown.

It wasn’t love, she cried, but desperation

that drove her to him so in the end   

and then he didn’t give a damn,

whatever the interpretation.

When I reach for the leash

seventy pounds of exuberance

slam down in sharp-clawed play,

land on the top of my sandaled right foot,

fine bones, nerves, thin skin. I

hop around on the other foot. I

howl, I curse—

and you

are no longer here to laugh.

After the walk, the dog bounds on

in pursuit of tennis balls, squirrels,

                                looks for you,

leaving me to brood over bruises,

soothe to the wound.