I flash the outline of a mushroom
On my wrist—the inside, dark pen ink

Over light blue veins, and you ask me,
Nervously—as if you are scared of being seen

When it is your eyes hunting with
The first glint of early morning light—

If it is real, if I would really plant
A mushroom on my skin, as if

It is something you never thought of
Past pick and grill and sauté,

And I lie and say yes because I want
You to turn over my arm to trace

The darkest lines in this forest, those
Hidden under a log’s bulging belly,

Your hands reaching past spring’s
Purples and yellows to find my dark shell,

Smooth top, and curved edges
With just enough room for your hips

Next to every sunrise. I want
your eyes to pluck me from the shade,

Carry me home in a wicker basket,
And brush the dirt from my body,

My filled in lines, I am open on
A cutting board, your fingers, slowly,

Savor each speckled constellation
As if you never before felt the stars

And their dark underbellies, pale skin
And every last vein of hidden ink.