And God created fungus. And God saw that it was good.

The cemetery is quietish,
and the mourning dove
calls gingerly on the lawn crypt.
They have carried the coffin
to and fro like coyotes
stalking the deer path.
A girl child pushes a wicker pram,
her doll clothed in widow’s weeds,
her ribbons dyed quickly
in black walnut and acorn.

In twelve months—slightish mourning.
Babies are stepping
onto the grass,
and girl children who play with dolls
can read now, their fingertips
mildew-scented
from secondhand bibles.

The old willow is cut down.
New growth on the stump is
stripped back until
dead wood breaks down.
In the cool soil, worms muscle upward.
Mushrooms creep further
into the vegetable plot.

And the coughing returns to the farmhouse,
and the sow’s blood returns
to the hay-floor barn,
and E. coli returns to the well,

and the hospital doors open and close.
And the oncologist has done all that she can,
and the priest has done all that he can,
and the women make sandwiches
for the funeral potluck.

In the candy aisle,
they pocket viola-scented mints
for the eulogy.

And the mycologists return
to their laboratories and forests,

and the cowboys
to their horses,

and the children
to their schools,

and the nuns
to their prayers.

Emily Bulicz-Arnelien