‘When we die, can we become mycelium?’, ‘Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful’, ‘I’m keeping my hands busy lately’

Alicia Garrett is a nature enthusiasts who is looking for a creative hobby to justify her antisocial behavior.

When we die, can we become mycelium?

In constant communication?

A new form of regeneration?

I hope your consciousness remains a constant companion.

This is not quiet reincarnation, but

unbecoming to become intertwined with what already exists.

My shoulders used to shudder at the thought of smoldering into ash

or being packed beneath 2,597 pounds of earth.

Now I hope we are devoured by the same worm colony,

deposited in the same soil, that we sprout the same mushrooms,

feed the same flowers; to nourish into eternity.

Our hearth has become my heaven

and our dirt is the afterlife

being tended to today

Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful

without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?

After Douglas Adams

My lover wraps his arms around me, crushing me into the couch cushions, my scowl tunrning into railleries;

why does my body fall back into the past like a warm lake in the summer rain? When my head breaks the

surface, it is sleeting and I am shivering; why do my toes keep stretching to the sandy bottom? He holds me as

the shudders subside, wipes the deluge from under my eyes, and my insides feel crystallized. If only there were

life rafts for the resivoirs of trauma. If only there were daisies beckoning from shoreline. If only the bank wasn't

covered in snow. If only I could see the icicles as nature’s ornaments instead of another danger to avoid,

slinking into more devastating waters. The fae keeps me up late, dancing in a pool of my own destruction; my

lover hangs on as I do summersaults through surrealism.

The fairies are having a ball at the bottom of the lagoon, whispering invitations I know will lead me astray. I

bolt the doors with iron and shelter myself harbor of my lover. We exist in crackle of a candle, the light from the

flame, the shadows on the wall; we frolicked in the future, and I find him shrewn through every version.

I’m keeping my hands busy lately

Digging into dough, my mind needs me to knead

until my arms are numb and memories are subdued.

This is not quite dissociation or distraction;

the smell of freshly peeled apples assails my senses

and the crust crumbles between my forefinger and thumb.

Soft serenades drift from the stereo

and I hum along, not quite absently.

There is no outrunning the past, so I decided to bake with it.

We laugh in the kitchen and I fold it into a new recipe, taking my time.

The weather is warming and bread is rising faster.

Early spring flowers are blooming

and we plant herbs in the thawing garden beds.

I make a blueberry pie and you tell me it tastes just right.

Maggie Bowyer (they/he) is a poet, co-host of the podcast Baked and Bookish, and the author of various poetry collections including Homecoming (2023) and When I Bleed (2021). They’ve been published in Chapter House Journal, The South Dakota Review, Wishbone Words, and more. Find their work on Instagram @maggie.writes