in the night, my body unravels itself. I drift,
cartilage sighing apart like petals. the bones
are the meat of the thing, so to speak—
lately I have taken to waking after midnight
just to hear my ribs concave. it is
a beautiful thing, a forest-floor of a body,
the beginning un-weave before loam.

we are born as cobweb creatures, all
nerve endings & capillaries, alveoli
& filament flesh. in my bed, I have a sense
of the opposite: the slow growth of fungi, the rot.
life springs from death; no, say it seeps, a river
borne red from the rock. have patience.
breathe deeper. accept the wounds, the spores,
the unzipping of dream-ravaged flesh. bear up
beneath the change.

one day I will wake, I know, six inches deep
in mushrooms, a fertile store to feed them
as they bloom. til then I’ll close my eyes each night
to the silent sound of growing, of hyphae prying open
all my cells.