Frothy Mold

by Yaacov Dovid Shulman

Frothy mold was growing along the inside of my scalp.
It was used to going where it didn’t belong—
On worn stairs or tables where elbows had rested without fail
Or in the wrinkles in long-used books.
How do you know, for instance, right now,
That mold has not engulfed your car,
Your children, or your wife?
I ran wildly through the health food store,
Wildly leaving marks of my choppers
In the organic fruits, the raw oats, the flasks of goat milk.