toxoplasmosis feels like	    love
	to a mouse, you say,		but it’s a	                 fungus

that makes mice think they 	love
	cats, so as to, ingested,	help fungus 	       make fungus.

infected cicadas fuck without rest,
	driven mad, ‘til they drop,	by a genital	         fungus.

but don’t mushroom 	         	networks	      
	bear tender tree warnings?     so what if they’re     fungus?

all we know of 	         	 love
	is it rubs the right hub     in a brain, shaped like       fungus.
	
we two, naked roots in this 	bed,
	my damp on your tongue,	slippery-sweet as a  fungus,

your cum in my 	         	wet—
	oh, that sly,			savory		                  fungus.

---

Author’s note: I grew up in the northwest, and used to thrive in winter. But after a decade living in Virginia, I’ve adapted so completely to the humid, scorching summers that I shiver in temperatures below 70 degrees. I’d rather sleep naked beneath a ceiling fan than wear longjohns and burrow under layers of quilts. They say some like it hot – I, now, am one of them.

Francesca Leader‘s poetry and CNF have been or will be published in Abyss & Apex, Broadkill Review, Hooligan, Club Plum, Identity Theory, Door is a Jar, Stanchion, Literary Mama, Poetry Aotearoa, and elsewhere. Her debut poetry chapbook, Like Wine or Like Pain, is available from Bottlecap Press.