These are not my grandmother’s mushrooms
their blotched white skins mottled in the grass,
a hand tucked beneath the umbrella meat,
bone handled fish knife soft to the stems.
These are a different kettle of spores altogether,
ruffed collar about a shortened stump
lips pursed on top of each other,
sour sucked expression rolled in on waves.
Extravagant, and no good to anyone
these are the dangerous sort.
This afternoon has been a delight of migraines, so I’m having a quick go at tonight’s poetics prompt and then turning in for the evening. I used to go picking mushrooms with my grandmother quite a bit, but I can’t remember why we stopped… I think they just stopped growing quite as much in the fields around her house.