First Chanterelle by an Old Hunting Road

by STEPHEN SIPERSTEIN

I’ve said a prayer
sharpened a knife
prepared myself to feel
like a fungus.
Then this golden
apparition happens
so quick
I think this,
this will be easy,
and slice the stipe
just above dirt.
But day empties
into dusk
and I’ve wandered
already so deep
into woods riddled
by bullet holes
and bleached bones
that lurk beneath ferns,
now far from that
initial spot
having forgot
the slope, the soil
the light, the slow
hunger of autumn
growing inside me:
a craving
for thick brown bread
dipped in melted butter
for the smell of apricot
for a feeling
like a startled
animal that jumps
from the underbrush
of the heart, crying:
“Go on, go on.”