Paganki

"But their love of mushrooms is of a different order, a visceral urge, a passion that passeth understanding. The worthless kinds, the poisonous mushrooms: the Russians are fond, in a way, even of them. They call these "worthless ones" paganki, the "little pagans," and my wife would make of them colorful centerpieces for the dining-room table, against a background of moss and stones and wood picked up in the woods." - R. Gordon Wasson

Soft pale curves in the moonlight,
standing in a circle on the damp meadow grass,
close, but not touching. Paganki, what rite
are you performing? And if it comes to pass

that you summon something, what would heed your call?
No imp or demon. Nothing with a fist.
Something softer, smoother overall:
some caress as delicate as mist.

Oh I'm outside your circle, and I know
my entry might disrupt it. All the same,
there's something in me wants to take the chance:

something like a flickering candle's glow,
a faerie fire inside me, with no name,
that rises like a wraith to join your dance.

in memoriam Shandaiya

October 9, 1998

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Last updated 1999 February 22