fleshy fungus

Harvey S. Mozolak

their smell reached me

before I saw them

perhaps the mower cut a few

their gills gulping the air

at the edge of the woods

still beneath the trees

and along the roots

blending into the soil’s shading

mushrooms

small models of the atomic blast

leathery helmets of poison 

those noxious with sickness and death 

or gravy seasoning

small risings of the dirt

offering its oddly old taste

to those with a wariness 

and an eye to their history 

and what grows from the hunger

of the belly of earth