raw belle mushrooms

i discovered their glory in march

when we wore blue rubber gloves

& spoke softly to each other

from the front seat of my dying car.

by the bag. little round capsized boats.

the streets emptied of wanting

& were replaced with an all consuming

aimlessness. most days i forgot

what we were to each other?

we wondered through

our own pasts like cartographers.

somedays u were my mother & other days

a girl i wanted to sleep with in high school.

the grocery stores, barren, i began

to research how to grow a farm

inside a small two-bedroom apartment.

when i first typed this poem i misspelled

"grocery stores" as "grocery stories"

but "stories" is more accurate.

i was writing stories of how long i would survive.

about the farm, they suggest starting small

a tomato plant of some potted herbs.

i looked for seeds. but what i wanted

was to grow mushrooms. bushels.

enough to keep me fed. mushrooms

growing down from the ceiling.

mushrooms beneath the bed.

i bought as many as i could--

too many to eat. some people stocked up

on absurd amounts of hand sanitizer

but there i was with mushrooms.

i ate most of them raw. rubbery--

like absent meat. sprinkling

of salt. the granite kitchen counter.

you, looking out the window towards

a brick wall, the next building

only inches away. everything

was getting tighter & more distant

at the same time. the television

comforted itself. when time allowed,

i came back to nestle next to you.

i should have told you i was imagining us

floating in a little mushroom raft.

where should we go? instead we went

to our separate rooms & tried to undo ourselves.

me, the budding mushroom farmer

& his tiny flock of dreaming.

Robin Gow is a trans poet and young adult author. They are the author of OUR LADY OF PERPETUAL DEGENERACY (Tolsun Books 2020) and the chapbook HONEYSUCKLE (Finishing Line Press 2019). Gow's poetry has recently been published in POETRY, New Delta Review, and Washington Square Review.