your mushroom roots left lumps
of scar tissue on the glands that produce
sympathy. twining cells,
suffocating without eyes, water
that does not bear whispers too
afraid to be spoken.
i asked the moon what the crow
gave her, and whether it
helped with the shakes.
miss had no answer, but i threw
freshly shined pennies
into my black-deep well and
paused a wish. there was something
in the scent of my breath
visible in the crisp fall air
that reminded me of your collarbone bruises -
there was a new trail made
that night. miss told my dreams
what the crow gifted, but
my dreams never told me.