Morel Tongue

I wish my arms
were donkeys
pulling carts
full of children laughing
or produce to the country market
in a land without pickup trucks.

I wish my legs
were lungfish
making do in hard times
with air or water
as needed, or that they could crust up
and wait.

Wish my cheeks
were stuffed with mussels
because my mouth was a tide pool.

Smell that, the wet musk
of inhuman kindness?
I long to smell like that —

unconscious and fun, doing
the simple thing,  abundant
with no plan.

My
overworked brain screams
protest.  “Don’t deny me,
you asshole!”  Fuck off, brain.

I’m in love with not thinking tonight —
I fall asleep,

wishing I were a sloth,
home to algae and slow calm,
dreaming of a celery beard,
breathing over
a morel tongue.