Thursday, October 02, 2008


They're everywhere, in unprecedented numbers. In my son's suburban yard. In my small yard in the middle of the village. Along the Path. On the Stonehill campus. Never seen anything like it. Invasion of the body snatchers.

Budding up from the moist earth like gremlins, like graverobbers. shouldering aside grit and grass and stone. Jack-o-lantern orange, flecked with white flesh. Heaving, rising, spreading their caps, standing erect on firm white stalks. Sullen. Lascivious. Forbidden fruits. Who knows upon what soil they fed/ Their hungry thirsty roots?

They've been there all along, of course, in their subterranean bowers, insinuating their invisible mycelia into the soil. Four days of rain and it's witching time, twitching time. A dull itch becomes a thought, gathers, firms, insists. Touch me, taste me. Fly poison, toad attractor, devil's hat, Satan's spawn.