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survival is a fungus
it’s ugly
rotten
muddy

it’s not palatable
or cyclical
it’s what mothers warn their children not to touch
because it might be poisonous

survival is a fungus
it grew from the dirt
that gathered beneath my fingernails when i clawed
my way out of a shallow grave

i was not saved
i was not reborn
there was no cleansing fire
i can’t begin anew



Kiki Em is a writer from Boston, Massachusetts, currently in pursuit of her Bachelor’s degree. You can read her previously published work in Cathartic Lit Magazine and The Garlic Press.
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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