Hester L. Furey
Home from the mycelium wars,
I strip, bathe, wash every conceivable surface.
My life fits between the washer and the dryer.
I know I can’t go on like this.
When plants (and maybe animals – that is my theory)
begin to die, they throw all their energy to seed.
My tree uprooted, I came here
to survive, but did I? The jury’s out.
What is left of what I was?
Will anything that I call me live on?
It has no juice of a new life, if it is one.
While I wait for marching orders,
all must be lint-rolled, soaked in tea-tree oil,
dried twice, thrown away or preserved.
I am scraping bottom, another container
of light and air, agnostic,
here in the house of jars.