by Fiona Benson

October and the blown
mushroom dissolves,
its volva clubbed,
its stalk and cap,
its singed and musky gills.

I’ve spent too long collapsed
over this inwards dark
disembowelled, gone
to ground, fingering
my own wet spills

and bodily secretions,
a dream in which
I am fucking and weeping –
my mind has been wrong
for a long long time.

Here is its fruit.
It’s true,
I hear voices
and talk to myself.
I am done with shame.