I pull out #140 cold press paper
and arrange the supplies.
I sketch a faint, droopy T
to center my art.

With a fine HB pencil and a light touch,
I shape an oval—
flattening your cap’s dented dome.
Now for the base.
Unlike a tree, you are wide as can be:
a thick, bulbous cylinder
for an inch-tall stalk.
Basic geometry.

I look up.
Morning sun strikes from the east.
I shadow your underside
and slice a horizontal line for loamy soil.
Pulling back, I consider your texture:
long, hatching strokes for the stalk,
smaller, frantic slashes for the cap.
I blend in natural dots—
slightly flawed.

The pencil rests.
I dip a #8 faux sable brush into pigment,
then into water.
A thin, bleeding wash of cadmium for the cap,
a pale, back-and-forth cream-tan for the base.
I study your underbelly.
Blow the cap dry.
Darken your spots.

Now, your warts.
I change my brush,
stipple on a harsh, bumpy texture
in dioxazine violet tones.
Step back again.
Mix yellow umbre to catch the light.

How deep does your base grow?
An inch? Two?
Anchored in by a dense web of hidden threads,
feeding on each other,
I understand.
But no others are close.
This is good.

I remove the spoon from my tea cup,
dig around,
dig deeper,
scoop you onto the paper.

I fold all up tight,
hold you over the fire pit.
Drop you.

Eradicate you.

Symbolic only?
I pray another prayer— 
that the surgeon’s steel, too,
cuts out my friend’s fungal-
shaped cancer, leaving
not a single vestige.