I am covered in earth,
pacing the Lake Isabella shoreline
in a bell-shaped curve, an empty trajectory.
There’s a group of us and the consensus is that
they taste disgusting and when the nausea hits
you know they’re working, but
I think they taste like chocolate and chalk
and I’m not feeling nausea as much as machismo.
We’ve spiraled out into rings dependent on
how many stems we ate and how fast our metabolism is
with Daniel and the two Alex’s
(Alex with the knives and
Alex with the guitar)
in the smallest, center ring, talking to trees and
holding conversations with the kings
on playing cards. Meanwhile, I’m
at the farthest ring, looking in.
The dirt streaked on my arms seeming muscles
and the slick sunscreen on my back seeming sweat.
I never want to wash again, or sleep, move, fall in love again.
I want to feel the dirt caked on my body forever.
I want to smell like dirt and sleep in it and wake up
still smelling like dirt and trees and dead grass.
But the moment passes
and the mushrooms are digested into my body
and evaporate into my blood stream
and I take a lukewarm shower in the campground bathroom
and wash the masculinity out of my long hair,
watching my power roll down the drain.
gram this fall.