Two Gifts of Mushrooms in Two Sacks

I didn’t trust the ones  smuggled for uspurportedly  from the forests of Europe,weathered, desiccated flesh,  and in what soil exactlyhad these grown  and who plucked them—we didn’t know,  or those others delivered by another friend,some species never tasted,  we kept imagining,or the fate of the taster  unknown,and some with a rind like a cantaloupe  or enameled or matte, andothers apparently polished  like a rock in a tumblerbut soft necked.  I registered many shadesand simulations  at the bottom of the sack,imagined their preferences  for decayand their colonialist aspirations,  their embarrassmentwithout orifices,  the littler ones like chicken feed,and then that smoke-colored  devil’s horn snapped off,and that flabby ear of a  shrunken horse,and that doorknob  into the storm cellarwhere we used to hunch   during tornado warnings.Each sack so dark inside  it seemed that ifthe mushrooms  tumbled outand I accidentally  trampled themI’d be cursed forever  and wear a mask of measlesand run riot in a ditch  and filibuster a hillsideand turn into one of their cousins,  a known killer—.Each bleached passport unstamped.  What did we missthat unplanned summer  when a week apart these gifts arrived,each interior of each sack  like the stillnessinside a small painting,  a forest folded inward,enough for us to ask  what other gifts are wasted on us?