She dreamt mushrooms
grew from her wrist.

Dread blossoms in
her eyes, so terribly grown up.
I do not tell her
humidity harvests mushrooms,
or that rain spreads over us,
and will linger for years.

With anxiety her wrist itches,
like the ache of old bones
with impending dampness.
I do not tell her
it is a gypsy scar,
or that it will spread over her,
and will linger forever.