Born of damp and demise, little prodigies haunt the shadows, like conversations we live to forget. Wild mushrooms lift their spongy overnight ears, and muscle aside the fallen eye-shine of chestnuts. Among us, the old argument crops up, and both parties hunker down in the woods. This is where we get the verb mushroom: we, who launch our ripostes, seeding the air beyond what it can hold. What if we can’t find the truth? The man losing his faith in speech utters blurred shapes, like those caps and stems, ghostly with foxfire, savvy and sprouting, in hopes they illumine the woodland floor.
“And she utterly denyed her guilt of Witchcraft; yet justifyed God for bringing her to that punishment: For she had when a single woman played the harlot.” —John Hale, A Modest Enquiry into the Nature of Witchcraft
this is not easter wings at least not yet this is what is penned when you find they broke
your mother’s father’s mother’s mother’s father’s father’s father’s father’s father’s father’s mother’s neck and all you can do now is break some lines to ask how did this fall further any flight in her
So you doubt the whereabouts of God, a quark, everywhere yet nowhere at once. So the hell what? Doubt you the wind, doubt sandstone erosion and trilobite carapace. Let faith in dawn weather slow as feldspar. The sperm whale’s lungs collapse a thousandfold in unfathomable depths, yet bear it, unyielding. You who preach against miracles, go doubt the arctic tern asleep on the wing. Doubt that a father will leave untouched constellations of frost inside his windshield, the breath of his child frozen overnight. Doubt that bodies lose a few grams the moment of death. Doubt that, you who will, doubt that.