And he’s standing right next to her, his
hip-bone lightly touching hers, and I was
thinking this drink should really be called
Pour Me Another.
After the Kahlúa Ran Out
I remember the heat.
I remember the dark.
I remember the music.
I remember the dancing.
I remember leaning back against his chest.
I remember seeing Ian
and not understanding
how he could be all the way
over there and still have
his arms around my waist.
I remember turning my head and kissing
whose lips?
I remember swaying, stumbling, spilling
my vodka and milk.
Random Flashback
My head on
the cool, white pillow.
Someone
is stroking my hair.
So sleepy.
I’ll feel better
after a little rest.
POUND
POUND
POUND
FUCKING HURRY UP IN THERE!
I’M ABOUT TO PISS ON THE FLOOR!
Come on, Sleeping Beauty,
let’s put you to bed.
Random Flashback Redux
Before we leave
the bathroom,
he hands me R2-D2
and murmurs
those sexy, sexy words
every girl longs to hear:
Just in case
you have to puke
again.
Adaptation
Nature has multiple ways
of avoiding shit. There’s
migration (Catch you later!),
hibernation/estivation (Wake me when it’s over!),
camouflage (Nothing to see here!),
mimesis (You better believe we are monarchs,
and we taste bad!).
Three-toed sloths escape
confrontation by living high
in the rain forest canopy,
out of reach of potential
predators.
If all else fails,
there’s always the option
to make like a herd of gazelle
and run.
I Have Sloth Envy
If only I had
algae
growing in
the cracks
of my hair,
turning it
green,
I, too, could
blend in
with my
surroundings
and never
be seen.
Only one
problem:
these sheets
are blue.
Unshedding
Exuviae
is Latin
for
“things
stripped
from the
body,”
and
once
a snake
discards
the layer,
it never
attempts
to slither
back in,
but
hang-
ing
over
the rail,
oh
thank
God,
I see
my
jeans.
Groveling in All Caps
The big question before I send:
How many “SO”s?
Add,
subtract,
add,
add,
add.
There.
Now Esther knows that
I AM
SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO SO
SO
SORRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Her Response
No hearts, no kissing faces, no roses,
no cheeseburgers, no pig nose, no pandas, not even a measly
cactus, just two plain lines,
On the train
Text you later,
to tell me
she’s not impressed.
Kat in Shining Armor
She’s biologically incapable
of achieving consciousness
before noon on weekends,
but I might as well shoot Kat
a text for later:
Heyyyyyyyyyyyy! Ho Here. Hahaha
(Apparently, alcohol activates
alliteration)
Also,
Help! I’m trapped in a tower!
It’s not likely but maybe
the buzzing of her phone
will wake her up, and she can
borrow her brother’s car
to come save the damsel
from further distress.
Junk Food
Behind the custodian’s shed
at recess, Lance Stahlman
gagged me with his
Dorito-crusted tongue.
When he tried that move
on Kat, she bit his lip
so hard it bled. Lance cried
and ran to the nurse’s office,
and for the whole rest of sixth grade,
he trash-talked us, but did we
even care what came out of that
garbage mouth? No.
Ugly Slut and Lesbo Bitch were busy
becoming best friends.
Relationship Philosophy
Kat loves Tinder.
She compares it to going for frozen yogurt.
Why buy a big lump when you can fill up
on sample cups?
a Vassar Lax bro,
a Bard trust-fund anarchist,
a New Paltz man-bun drummer,
a Bryn Mawr psychology major
home for her sister’s bat mitzvah.
Whatever makes her happy,
but I told her I don’t need variety.
Once I find a flavor I like, I stick with it.
The Moment of Truth
So . . . that was quite a party.
What time did you leave?
Your friend Luna seems cool
Googling hangover cures!
Looks like I need garlic and a pound of ibuprofen
Let’s go to the diner
I’ll buy you a tofu scramble
Unless you’re too ashamed to be seen with me
Did you know that Darth Vader’s helmet looks like a black
Amanita?
Didn’t mean to embarrass you last night
Really sorry
Not Sure
what
I expected
Ian’s answer
to be
but,
it was definitely
not
that.
8:44 a.m.
With morels or chanterelles
or any other highly valued species,
don’t plan to come back for them
later. They’ll be gone.
Unfortunately,
the same cannot be said for
Ian’s text:
You do nothing but complain
about your dad cheating on your mom
and then you go and hook up with
Conor right in front of me. You’re such
a hypocrite.
At Least Now I Know One Thing About Last Night for Sure
Definitely Conor.
Invasive Species
Often the transfer happens
undetected.
Brown tree snakes
left New Guinea
coiled under the hoods
of surplus army jeeps.
They slithered out in Guam
hungry.
Other times it happens
where everyone can see.
Cane toads
were welcomed
to Australia
as the solution
to a beetle infestat
ion.
They soon became
the problem,
the hero that—plot
twist!—turned out
to be a villain.
And sometimes
it’s a combination.
The organism
quietly enters the environment,
and by the time anyone
truly understands
what’s going on,
the damage is done.
What They Have in Common
Here in the Hudson Valley
we have many invasive species—
emerald ash borers,
zebra mussels,
gypsy moths,
purple loosestrife,
common mugwort,
giant hogweed,
viburnum leaf beetles,
to name a few of the most common.
As far as I can tell,
none of them
show remorse.
Classroom Visit
Elephant. Rhino. Great blue whale.
The standard guesses before
the big reveal.
In fact, the largest living organism
is not a drab hunk of mammal
but a humongous fungus!
A colony of Armillaria solidipes
that’s been growing for thousands of years
beneath an Oregon forest.
Dad said to think of it like a subway system.
On the surface, mushrooms pop up
like entrances to stations,
but mycelial networks—the
tracks—extend for miles underground.
While the rest of the class
fidgeted, doodled, chattered,
I sat still and straight to show him
that I was proud, that he could count on me.
I was paying attention.
The Nerve
He also said
some researchers believe
mycelium can sense
the vibrations
of our footsteps.
Does it hurt them?
someone asked,
and Dad said that was
an interesting question.
He said he didn’t think
fungi could feel pain,
as if it was possible
for him to know.
What’s in a Name
Marjorie comes from Mom’s mom,
who died of lung cancer a month before I was born
and hated her name—in school, kids called her Not
Butter, a.k.a. Margarine—so my parents promised to call me
Jorie.
Dad picked Jane for my middle name. He was writing
his dissertation on Jane Goodall’s research,
but decided to leave school and take a
“grown-up job” at the museum to support us.
Most wildlife researchers identify their subjects
with numbers, but Goodall gave her chimpanzees names.
Goliath. Flint. Tess. David Greybeard. An adult female
named Passion once ripped an infant chimp away
from its mother, killing it swiftly with a bite through
the forehead. Passion shared the meal with her daughter
Pom. Together the pair murdered and ate at least
two more babies. Jane wondered if Passion and Pom
knew their behavior was wrong, but of course there’s
no way to tell for sure who does and does not have
a conscience. Not with chimpanzees. Not with human beings
or any other species of ape.
The Real Reason
By the buffet table
at Ian’s graduation party,
I overheard Dad telling
some random uncle
that he couldn’t write
his dissertation because
I was a toddler at the time,
and going back and forth
to Tanzania for research
would have been
impossible.
So I guess it’s not true what
he’s always told me about
not finishing his PhD because
he realized he didn’t want
to teach.
He must have figured
it was better to lie,
since the real reason
might make me feel bad.
A.k.a.
Mom works as a guidance counselor at Irving High,
but I go to THS, a.k.a. The Hadley School,
a.k.a. The Hippie School, which has a
“self-directed approach to learning”
and “comprehensive evaluations,”
a.k.a. no grades, since, according to their website,
they “strive to foster a pressure-free environment,”
a.k.a. the opposite of Irving, where Mom has had
students weeping in her office over one tiny
minus beside an A. She likes to remind me
how lucky I am that my teachers—of course
we’re allowed to call them by their first names—
are there to “facilitate, not constrain,” a.k.a. I am free
to be that girl who makes weird mushroom art.
The Hiking Boots
She didn’t have the right shoes.
That was usually Mom’s excuse.
After we bought her hiking boots
for her birthday, it was that she kept
forgetting to break them in.
Okay, okay, she would admit, she’s not
the most outdoorsy person in the universe.
But she didn’t mind at all
if we went foraging for mushrooms
without her. And if Dad wanted to invite
the new education coordinator?
Great idea! Show her all the best
trails, help her get to know the area.
She was even welcome to
borrow Mom’s boots if they fit.
How to Forage for Morels
They look like alien life-forms,
like stretched-out shrunken brains,
like shriveled troll caps.
But if you’ve ever tried them fried
with butter, garlic, a little salt,
you understand why they are
the mushroom hunter’s biggest prize.
On the first warm day of spring,
you must go deep into the woods.
Deeper.
Concentrate.
Slow down.
Search under ash, aspen, elm, oak.
Scan every inch of ground.
Decide this just isn’t your day.
Bring your empty basket back to the car.
Wait, what’s that? In that weedy patch
beside the parking lot?
There they are!
They found you.
Record Haul
I still remember
walking into the coffee shop
where Mom was waiting,
how she snapped her laptop shut,
stuck her nose over the bag,
breathed in the earthy perfume
of thirty-four (!) morels,
turned to the Invasive Species,
and said, You must be good luck.
Sometimes I Wonder
Exactly how long after that
the affair started, whether it was
years, months, weeks, days,
or maybe it was already going on?
Not like Dad would ever tell me.
Not like I would ever ask.
Signs of Toxicity
Beware of white flesh,
partial veils, parasol shapes,
red stalks and caps.
You can’t judge by scent
or taste. (Death caps are
delicious, survivors say.)
Even experts have been
fooled by specimens
they thought were safe.
The first time I met
the Invasive Spec
ies,
she showed me
how to feed Tony,
how she pinched
each mealworm between
her pale fingertips.
Volunteering in the Discovery Den at the Museum
Child: There’s nothing in here.
Parent (squinting at the tank): Yes, there is. See that lizard?
Me: Amphibian. Tony’s a tiger salamander.
Child: He’s boring.
Me: Actually, Tony’s a very . . .
Parent: Honey, come check out these cool moon rocks!
Me (silently): Meteorites.
Teacher’s Pet
When the Invasive Species told me
she planned to donate Tony
to a fourth-grade classroom,
I was like, no way.
He shouldn’t have to
perform tricks to stay here.
He’s not Shamu.
And she agreed—she loved
him, too—but Albert
the hissing cockroach
had already been ordered,
so . . .
I offered to take Tony home.
He’s not exactly a party animal
but he is more active now
that I feed him a varied diet—
crickets, mealworms, earthworms,
and the occasional cockroach
for revenge.
Tony’s Portrait
I made his body out of inky cap prints,
added sulfur tuft-print spots.
The I.S. had it framed and hung it
in the Discovery Den as a tribute—suck it,
Albert!—to Tony’s years of faithful service.
After she quit, I noticed it was gone and figured
she took it with her, wondered if she ever
passed it on the wall of her living room/
bedroom/kitchen and thought about me
and felt at least a twinge of guilt for
all the hurt she caused, but then I found it
on a dusty shelf in the museum storage closet,
just one more piece of junk she must have
been happy to leave behind.
When the Light Changed
I couldn’t get over the feeling.
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