by Anna Benedict



The mycelium 
spreads a-whispering 
the unfortunate instinct to misery:

What lurks seething 
in the gaptooth? 

What whistles 
through branches bare? 

What flows 
in fog-pools 
of the hollow dark?

We scatter upon lightning flash 
and choke on the bone-crack. 

She pricked the hare at spearpoint 
just to hear him whine. 
But even the bird bends to eat her tail. 
Her dandelionspine snaps, too, 
in the end. 

Our wings enfold and we genuflect scarce 
to the hundred-eyed fox, 
her pomegranate seeds gleaming 
crimson. Abundant and blinking. 
Her paws timegnarled, 
her pelt sprung erect after so, so long…

Drop, hickory nut and acorn, 
fly oh honeybee. 

Run, little mice, 
you silly willow-scum, 
you lily-livered wretch.

We all atrophy the same: 
From the inside out.



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