Lit Mags
Taxonomy Can’t Classify My Fruiting Body
Two poems by Lauren Moseley
Taxonomy Can’t Classify My Fruiting Body
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Self-Portrait as Resurrection Fern
we wonder / what saved us? what for?
—H.D.
When I came to myself again,
I thought yes, this time, yes,
and stretched on the moss
in the forest I’d known for seven
adolescences. Lichens, leaves,
and limbs glistened beneath me,
and I no longer resembled
a cluster of dust, something swept
from a far desert. In the thick of it,
there was no difference between
dormancy and death, no way out
til I found what I needed. Call it
nourishment, or care—the feeling
of being looked after. It is here,
despite, or because of, so much loss.
Lifeblood
is a drop of atmosphere,
small as a spore, colossal
as the ancient oak I clutch—
reaching for immortality,
finding it in the rain.
Slime Mold Exceptionalism
After Lucy Jones’s essay “Creatures that Don’t Conform”
