Mushroom grow in my garden
my yard/under my bed/between my
toes like sergeants—I kill green.
Always have.

This morning we draped your lace
curtains around your Christmas
cactus and violets growing

on your window ledge
and took pictures
of your green thumb life.

Written for PAD  Day 16

“Use the last line of yesterday’s poem for the first line of today’s poem.”

Image: Up Close and Personal





We plan dinner
about every five minutes,

This is what we do:

You pull out each box of Instant
and say we could add chicken, we

could add broccoli, we could add
mushrooms, Oh, no, you don’t like

mushrooms. Oh, but I do and your
smile delights even the crumbs on

your four-day old sweatshirt, you
open wide your arms and we hug

and cry, “mushrooms” as if to celebrate
a spongy spore is what brought us

to the center of your kitchen and not
the straining of touch or need to rewind
and start over.

Last week I asked why you never said
those words and you said your mother

said them too much so you decided
you’d never say them.

Together we slice mushrooms into shadow
hearts, the late trade-off for the three little words
I never heard and we discuss dinner.

This is what we do.




Written for PAD Day 15
Write a Trade-off Poem

Butterfly Illusion Digital Painting