They cut down an ancient tree on the university green yesterday. I lay myself across the width of its stump and get splinters in my shoulder blades. My mouth tastes like hydrocortisone. When night falls, the moon is a sliver mark made by a fingernail that gouged the sky, the bruised horizon mocked by the lithium glow of a thousand red tail lights. Arms unfurling, I trace the caps of defiant little mushrooms peeking through the dewy lawn despite the herbicide treatments. Networks of mycelium will consume the concrete. Nothing can stop the foundation from rotting.
N. Taupe is someone’s pseudonym. They are a queer/disabled/trans/nonbinary person. Their work has previously been published in hyacinthus mag, warning lines, and Full House Literary Magazine. You can find them @taupe_n on Twitter.
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