Because I couldn’t buy a place
   called Poland or pack it in my suitcase,
I brought back souvenirs to eat
   instead: the King Bolete,
a bag of Golden Chanterelles,
   Pale Parasols, Morels,
the Slippery Jack,
   Canary Trich, and Milky Cap.
I told my parents how I spent
   a weekend in the woods. My body bent
to cut each stalk, a pocketknife
   deciding which was life
and death.
   I found the edible beneath
wet brush, stems close to drowning,
   the undersides polka-dotted brown,
like tiny mouths
   exhaling breaths
of soil. All other types could kill —
   gray toadstools gilled
like fish, their fleshy underskirts
   which stank of mold, even the dirt
made toxic in their shade. By noon,
   my basket filled with true mushrooms,
prizes the locals steamed
   in butter or bathed with heavy cream.
Because I couldn’t properly explain
   the smell of leaves all rotted from the rains,
I brought the forest home
   with me, primeval as the taste of loam.