Trash Mushrooms
you know, the kind that clean up oil spills and other man-made, ecological
disasters. Oyster mushrooms, for instance, that break down
petroleum, or pestalotiopsis microspora which survive
by consuming nothing but plastic, no need for air or light. Yes,
I wish I could find a trash mushroom for the heart—
that airless, lightless landfill—so it could eat up all this
decaying tissue and seep up all these hearty oils.
Scientists would gather round to observe
the little toadstools that popped out of my chest
overnight. They’d say egghead things like:
Is she now part vegetable, part animal?
How does the trash mushroom know
that this heart
is a trash heart?
Oh, Mycelium!
One jots down in a notebook:
in search of
compostable love?
Anna Kiggins writes poems, essays, and hybrid works. She recently earned an MFA in creative writing from Hollins University. Her poetry can be found in Puerto del Sol, and her reviews can be found in The Hollins Critic. She lives in Tulsa, Oklahoma and works in behavioral health.