The Fungus

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Karen got the fungus,
And it consumed her.

It began as a tiny dot,
On the underside of her big toe,
A greenish-yellow growth,
Of callused flesh.

And slowly it grew,
Like a forest spreading across a desert,
Hundreds of little growths,
Cauliflowers and mushrooms,
Of different heights and widths,
Covering her like wilderness on a mountainside,
Or moss on a rock.

There was no pain,
And it would not spread to other people,
But there was no stopping it,
No cure,
No way back,
So Karen made the best of it.

She poked,
Prodded,
And picked at the growths,
Pinching,
And twisting them.

She’d run her fingers through a thick patch of them,
Like through the hair of a lover.

The growths felt good between her fingers,
The texture both hard and soft,
Like soggy wood.