After three years of braces,
a.k.a. tooth jail,
my mouth had been released
for good behavior.
I leaned over and flashed
my freedom in the rearview mirror,
trying on different smiles.
Mom stopped at a red light on Route 9.
That’s when I saw what at first seemed
like a happy coincidence.
There’s Dad and the Invasive Species
(not what I called her then)!
Mom frowned. Where?
Behind us!
I texted him from the orthodontist.
He didn’t say they had a school visit.
She looked over her shoulder. I don’t see them.
Right back there. I turned to
wave. They were gone.
Mom said, I guess
you made a mistake.
The light changed,
and we continued forward,
but I know what I saw:
His car. Him. Her.
Together.
Did they deliberately
turn off the road to avoid us?
I could tell Mom didn’t want to
talk about it. For the rest
of the ride back to school,
I kept my mouth closed.
Common Sense
I had no way to
prove
Dad was lying
when I asked him
if that was his car,
and he said
no.
Then again,
if he had brought home
a mushroom
with a smooth, greenish cap,
a thick, ringed stalk,
and close, white gills
that he found
growing under oaks
in late September,
I wouldn’t have
swallowed that, either.
The First Time
The second time,
at Stop & Shop,
I ducked behind
the avocados.
The third time,
in the library parking lot,
I faked tying my shoe
until he got in his car.
The fourth time,
on the escalator at the mall,
he was going up,
we were going down.
That’s the guy? Ian
swiveled around, but
I grabbed his hand
and pulled him along.
The first time
I ever saw Tim
was at my front door,
when he showed up
yelling about
his whore of a girlfriend,
Mom’s piece of shit husband,
and was she aware, and did
she have a clue?
Please Touch
After
the scat hit the fan,
it was hard for me
not to imagine
Dad passing through
the Discovery Den
on his way to
the Invasive Species’s office,
passing by all the bones
and pelts and skins and feathers
and rocks and shells and petrified
wood and the sign that says
“Please Touch,”
and thinking, Sure,
don’t mind if I do.
Eradication
With sustained and dedicated effort,
invasive species can be eradicated
when conditions in the environment
no longer support their presence.
Dad was not in the room
when Mom broke the news to me
that the I.S. had
gotten a different job
teaching middle school science
in Cleveland.
Or, Ian said,
she’s just telling you that
so you won’t go looking
for the body.
I agreed that Mom
definitely had a motive,
but how to explain
her alleged victim’s
recent Instagram pics
of Lake Erie?
Dad hired
a new education coordinator
named
Kevin.
Trick or Treat
Dad could tell
that every
Aren’t you precious!
and
What a cutie!
was making me
furious.
Another door,
another stranger’s
And what are you?
A honey mushroom?
Well, isn’t that sweet.
Finally
I’d had
enough.
I’m Armillaria mellea,
and I’m deadly.
Oh my,
said the man
surrendering
Snickers.
Don’t worry, you’re
safe, Dad chimed in,
but your oak tree?
He made a slashing
motion across his neck
and smiled.
Destroying Angel Poisoning
The cruel part is,
the symptoms don’t appear right away.
A victim can finish every bite and feel perfectly
fine. She can do the dishes and go out dancing, the
taste
lingering
in her
mouth.
She can
come home happy,
sleep
well,
wake up
rested,
take a
shower,
make
coffee,
catch
the bus,
sit down
at her desk
in Ohio and start
her day still not
knowing that she’s
doomed.
Haunted
My name,
whispered in the doorway,
drags me out of a dream.
I roll toward the wall
to make space.
The mattress creaks.
Our spines collide.
This ghost has cold toes.
I’m sorry, she says, I just can’t
share a bed with that man.
I reach back and grab
her hand, breathing deeply
in and out
in and out,
pretending that
at least one of us
can sleep.
And in the Morning
I pour Cheerios into a bowl.
Dad irons his pants.
Mom takes one more swig
of tea and reminds me
not to forget my lunch,
as if everything’s normal,
as if we don’t believe in ghosts.
Nature on Display
Ian tried to imagine
Mom’s reaction if the I.S.
had decided to stay
at her job and not move away.
He said, Talk about a catfight by the
mountain lion diorama,
and I was like, Haha, yeah, for real,
but I bet it would be
more like the bison diorama:
two females grazing
beside the male, ignoring
each other, acting natural.
What if Mom Went on Tinder
What kind of guy
might entice her
to swipe right?
A Chris Pine look-alike,
shirtless, in a kitchen, posing
casually by the dishwasher
to show off his incredibly hot
loading skills?
I guess I’ll never know,
since she swiped left
on happiness,
sanity,
self-respect,
and gave Dad
another chance.
They
>
They were committed to working on their marriage.
They knew that the last few months had been rough on me.
They wanted me to know I could always talk to them.
About anything.
They
They
They
did seem committed
to pretending
like everything can go back to normal
so long as we don’t say her name.
Pinched
In kindergarten I had this friend,
Corrine,
who thought she was
the boss of me,
and so did I.
On a sleepover
at my house, Corrine said
we were going to make
a fort,
not with blankets,
but a real one
out of plywood she found
in my garage.
She said we didn’t need
a hammer or nails,
which neither of us
knew how to use, since
masking tape would do.
It wasn’t like me,
but somehow
I spoke up and told her
that wouldn’t work,
and she pinched my arm
until it turned red.
Thank God her family moved
to New Jersey, Mom has
said more than once.
She was so mean to you.
But at that sleepover
I was the mean one.
How would Mom like it
if I told her I think
marriage counseling
seems like a huge
waste of time
when it’s obvious
she believes everything
will hold together
just because
she wants it to?
Suspicious
Ian sends the disc sailing.
Kat leaps for the catch.
On the sidelines,
I cheer and clap.
On the field,
the whole team swarms.
Ian lifts Kat into a hug,
his hands on her back.
His hands.
On her back.
God, I hate myself
almost more than I hate
the I.S. for turning me into
the kind of girlfriend
who can’t just enjoy the win,
who knows it makes no sense
to be suspicious.
Scientific Proof
Human beings are more than genes,
my biology teacher, Geoff, reminds us.
He even wrote on the board:
D
N
A
Does
Not
Always
Determine
Natural
Ability!
And yet
he was
Disappointed,
Noticeably,
At
my lackluster performance
on the first biology test
and
Definitely
Not nice
About
my apathetic semester.
I expect more from you, Jorie.
Really?
I think I did enough, Geoff,
by supporting your theory that
Dad, daughter—
Nothing
Alike.
Clueless
I’m like one of those idiots
who buys a turtle and then decides
it’s too much work and releases it
into the wild thinking it will find
a great new home in the pond
and make lots of new turtle friends.
After caring for Ian,
trusting him,
feeding him my secrets,
pulling him close
and then letting him go,
how stupid of me not to realize
he would bite back.
Ash tree bolete
Bleeding mycena
Cinnabar-red chanterelle . . .
First Impression
After school in the art room,
my freshman year,
he came in with Theo,
and Theo asked me about
my spore print and interrupted
my explanation. Wait, so if I
licked this—he flicked his tongue—
I’d get high?
I told him no, that it wasn’t
a psilocybin, and even if it was . . .
Dude, Theo called toward the sink
where Eddie was rinsing his brushes,
Remember that time we were shrooming
and you thought your sister’s guinea pig
was possessed?
Let Jorie talk, dickweed.
I didn’t think Ian knew my name,
but his smile, the way his hair
flopped into his eyes made me
so glad he did.
Forage Date
It was too early in the season,
but Ian acted impressed
with the winter leftovers
I showed him—faded turkey tails,
blobs of birch polypore.
We passed by the marsh
at Vassar Farm, and the peepers
were going nuts, and he said, How
do they know that’s a mating call?
It’s like scientists assume guy frogs
only think about one thing.
We had a great time
imagining what the peepers
might be saying, like
What’s the WiFi password?
or
Check out my new slam poem!
or
Your body, your choice!
We don’t have to reproduce!
We can just cuddle!
The Female Responds
By the barn, the male spread
his sweatshirt over the wet grass
for the female to sit on.
(The female was impressed.)
I can just see you as a nerdy
little kid, Ian said, plopping down
next to me. I bet you were adorable.
Ha. I casually scooted closer.
Six-year-old me would be kicking you
in the nuts right now.
He laughed. Adorable and fierce.
My favorite combination.
First-Grade Science Fair
All weekend I worked hard,
cramming my poster board
with charts and facts and illustrations.
The scissors left a purple dent.
My fingers bled Elmer’s glue.
Principal Wolbert taped the blue ribbon
to Julia Crespo’s dumb volcano.
Later he came over and shook
my hand. Nice job, young lady.
Over my head, he smiled at Dad
and winked, and Dad smiled back
and let him have it!
On the Ride Home
Claire, he practically accused her
of not doing the work herself.
Mom sighed. I thought she should
label the parts of a mushroom
and be done with it. You’re the one
always pushing her to show off.
Dad drove right past the ice cream store
where he had promised we’d celebrate.
Oh, so you think she should hide
her intelligence to make
condescending pricks like that
feel better? What a great lesson!
Showing Ian How It’s Done
In my room,
he gently
breaks off
the stem,
sets the cap
gill-side down
on a sheet
of orange paper.
How long do we wait?
Careful
not to bump
the edges,
I cover
the cap with
a mason jar.
At least
a few hours.
I usually leave it
overnight.
He smiles.
Sweet. I get to
come back
tomorrow.
My First Spore Print
Dad knew it was hard being patient,
so he took me to the park,
pushed me high on the swing,
listened to me whine.
Can we go home and look now?
How about NOW????
Since then, I must have made
hundreds more. Thousands.
Yet I still get excited
every
single
time
the magic works.
Artist’s Statement
The color of the spores—
white or cream or rust or pink or purple
or black or red or (in the case of
false parasols) green—can help with
species identification.
That’s how most mushroom hunters use them.
I see them as proof of hidden beauty.
Okay, TBH?
Sometimes I feel like
the real reason I make them is
because I’m lazy.
All I have to do is
put the cap down, and the mushroom
paints.
Ian’s Slightly Different Explanation
Just hear me out!
Spores are reproductive cells, right?
So when you set the cap down on the paper
and the gills, um, spill their seed
it’s like . . . (He mimes
masturbation.)
Stop! You’re gross.
Hey, dude, I’m not the one
making mushroom porn.
Spore Print Fail
There’s no guarantee.
Normally
I lift the cap
and find
a pattern.
And then
sometimes there’s
nothing but
a damp splotch,
a slimy mess
not worth
saving.
All I can do
is toss it out,
try again.
Artistic Evolution
At first I turned them into
the obvious: bicycle wheels,
flowers, suns, gaping monster
mouths. A Russula-print
snow family—Mom, Dad, me—
on my third-grade Xmas card.
In my abstract phase,
What Goes Up Page 3