by Tiffany Midge
Mushrooms are seekers. They sweat in a pan of garlic and butter, fuss, bicker and toss— toughing it out like the rest of us. They furl, tucking into themselves along an arm of steam. They eye a slant of vinegar, the crush of lemon rising like a halved sun along horizon of skillet. And all because they want what we want: the dose of salt, the kiss, to be poured onto a plate. They want praise, perhaps even dare, ask for love.