It’s a squirrel’s crushed skull

That makes mulch of my speech and thought

They grow mushrooms in the back of the throat

And send spiraling tendrils to worry twixt teeth 

They intertwine in my ribcage

And furnish the caverns of my nasal cavities

This fungi I refuse to harvest.

It decays the tongue and the glottis and 

Roughens the edges of my voice box. 

Emitting gurgles and rumbles, my innards

At last fall prey to these 

Tenacious weeds.