every mushroom-picking pocket book I find
contains some kind of disclaimer.
Collecting mushrooms to eat is dangerous.
No field guide is ever comprehensive.
So I bought two, and slung them in a rattan basket.
The kind of basket some of the girls at school
would nurse from Home Ec. in the crook of their elbows.
The kind of girls, like Suzanne Galloway, with thick tights
who sometimes carried violins in rigid cases
for lunchtime sessions in the music block.
All welcome.
Open. Optional. Twelve o’clock.
Once, Brett Coupe pulled the heavy doors open wide enough
for us to peer in at girls standing without their blazers,
violins trapped beneath their chins like telephones or windy babies,
and at their feet were cases filled with satin and crushed velvet.
I kick my boots clean outside and leave them at the door.
On the kitchen table I drop a basket full of mushrooms,
some red as blood, some purple and crinkly-edged
some squishy cups like orange water lilies.
I’m pretty sure this one’s an Amethyst Deceiver.
You ask me why I’d take that risk, but I can’t really answer.