Mushrooms

Rain lashed the house
'til cracks in the plaster
bled water.
Wind rattled rafters,
peeled free shingles
spinning through the trees.
Then the big willow toppled,
lifting up ten tons
of rooted mud
with a rumpled grass skirt.

The next morning,
we waded off the porch
into a brown lake,
waist deep and smooth as glass,
skimmed by clouds of
mosquitoes out for blood.
Ma and Pa found the canoe
and paddled off
to check the elder neighbors.

Tommy topped the high ground,
raised his fists in victory
like Noah after the Flood.
He found a patch of fungus
between the blades,
stems and caps dripping
in the drizzle.

Wild mushrooms, he claimed,
and though I begged
him not to, he popped
six into his mouth,
chewed, grimaced,
swallowed to prove
I was wrong.

An hour later 
I sat him at the table
when he claimed
the walls were melting,
straight lines curving,
like a wax house
tossed into a furnace.
I reached for the wash-basin
as he vomited, collapsed,
writhed on the floor.

Where's Ma? I screamed.

An hour later,
I was pawning my soul
to God and the Devil,
watching my brother's eyes
roll back into his head.
He sighed and stilled
on the kitchen's
black and white tile.

Scott Speck
09/30/99