Hi, Matt—
Your poem made me think of the television series, The Last of Us, in which the fungus that infects ants and turns them into zombies makes the leap to humans.
I like the lackadaisical tone of the N in discussing his demise or absorption into the fungus. He apparently expected to be transformed into something, but wistfully regrets that no one prepared him for the transformation, and that he was transformed into a fungus zombie instead of a werefox. (BTW, I did a little research, and only one species of fox, the gray fox of North America, is able to climb trees.)
Your piece made me think about what a poor job we do as a society preparing ourselves for each of the potentially traumatic transformations we experience: puberty, school, marriage, parenthood, old age, death. Fine work!
Glenn
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