with a fading photograph. Newly married, you stand together in
the back garden, arms entwined, honey rictus grins. At your feet
grows a nursery of fungi; tilting their shy bonnet heads at you.
You turn away and stare at the light. You press a hand to your
abdomen.
You forage the red-topped bills that multiply in his bureau.
You taste the bitterness of debt in his kisses.
He creaks around his kitchen, his shoulders wilted. You look
around the empty restaurant tables.
“Seasons,” he says, as if this explains everything. He kneads
dough urgently like he’s reviving a paling infant.
The forest floor is crowded; a triumphal orchestra of sepia
brass strains upwards, sucking lungfuls of detritus as you pass
with spade and knife. You cull a few and chew the tiny creatures
as you dig a wide, deep trench and plug it with spores.
You squat to cut a Fool’s Webcap.
Twigs snap as he blunders towards you, foxfire effervescent
in the gloaming. The air is tenderly green.
You tighten a scarf around his eyes and wait for him to
follow.