He picked the morel I was saving— announced, I found the granny. I wish he’d left it. Beige, and pitted like tripe. Last week, we savored eight, sautéed with ramps and eggs, a crunch like knucklebone. I’d plucked the yard of all but one, hoping the sponge-like fruit would seed the hill. The wizened Molly Moocher now lies on my counter. The undulating divots of her blond craters—mother dimples where I lose myself. A waning crescent sets at noon. I liked watching her bow and lean her head toward earth.
Kathryn Weld’s chapbook is Waking Light (Kattywompus Press, 2019). A finalist for both SER’s Gearhardt Poetry Award and The Bellevue Literary Review’s Jan and Marica Vilcek Award her work has also recently appeared in The Cortland Review, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Blueline, The Midwest Quarterly, and more. Her prose appears in The American Book Review, Connotations Press, The Critical Flame, and elsewhere. She is professor of mathematics at Manhattan College.
**We do our best to preserve the integrity of each poem; however, due to programming limitations, some poems may read differently on a mobile phone and in certain browsers. For best viewing, use Chrome on a desktop/laptop.