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Does the universe have a seed?

The mountain region of Amanus
birthed the fungus genus Amanita.
The planet SC-624–
called Ovhevrh by its indigenous
which means
“Flying Mountain”—
is colloquially known as Fly Amanita,
after the Earthen mushroom,
because of its big-ass flying mountain shrooms.

If the universe has a mother,
soil was her body,
fungus was the fleshy womb–
portal to life,
a venous thread,
an umbilical cord,
from pre-conscious existence
to the birth of thought.

Within the communicating
realms of the universe,
fungus are the oldest intelligence,
the largest organisms,
and the only macroscopic life
capable of space flight.

I saw the fungus blooms of Fly Amanita:
an orbit of fat jelly moons
in floral fractals.
phosphorescent.
I spent the planet’s long, long
long night in a bed of soft mycelia–
the sky glowed purple, red, green,
stars that wandered,
petals drifting in a pool
that doesn’t end.

The people who live there–
in the big-ass space shrooms–
cannot leave.
In adolescence the mushroom is open
for decades,
and in their culture they build their homes
and cities
and lives
within the spheres,
waiting, planning,
sometimes killing,
for the day the mountain will close,
and drift away into the sky:
never to open, never to land,
eternity
swallowing secrets
only mother universe knows.

Fungus is salivating meat soil,
soil is snug grimy womb,
soil feeds,
but its stomach stays empty,
soil swallows,
but its tongue is still dry–
soil begins,
ends,
is



Caleb Peiffer lives in Florida, worshiping at the Mouse’s feet, and wrote this poem at Disney. He loves Christ, his wife, and kids (he has three), volunteers with youth and elementary schoolers at his church, and works for an after-school program. Visit him at calebpeiffer.weebly.com
Current Issue
10 Aug 2026

the sleeping are so hard to distinguish / from the dead
We'd only lived in Arizona four years—it was our retirement place. But I'd died there, and she'd dumped my ashes out in the desert without fanfare, without any poem or prayer, unless you considered, “Jesus, Marty, don't leave me. Why'd you leave me, you old bastard" to be an elegy.
Nature, desecrated, refused to yield more than bone
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