In our poetry class, we were given the task of writing about a mushroom. This involved having to pay close attention to even the slightest details and find a way to write about the mushroom as something other than what it was. I’m no poet, but here is the attempt:
Whole, it is a white bulb
of taut flesh, blemished by specks
of dirt, smelling of dried earth
dampened once more.
Cracked open, and skinned,
it becomes scattered bones
with wet brown marrow.