"Shedding What Outgrew Me" by Ren Pike

I think I might have summit disease, I read about it in a magazine

at noon, I'm drawn to the extra large, single-stall bathroom on level 5, the one beyond the newly vacant offices

parasitic fungi, of various types, can take control of behavioural systems

every time I squat, I notice how the floor is buffed, almost amber no one knocks, a pillow and a blanket would be ideal

these pathogens hijack habits, re-purpose activities linked to circadian rhythms

I stand at the sink, willing myself to dispense soap, water rough paper towel trembles in my grasping hands

one such fungi is Ophiocordyceps unilateralis, they think it only affects insects

I'm not depressed, outside my head the birds keep falling and this concrete looks inviting in its broken bulb glow

the article says, infected ants become zombies, who can cause societal collapse

I'm sure I'd fit, curled up, there, the space between toilet and door, so sturdy with its deadbolt thrown

after they die, spores erupt from the ant's brain, raining down on the colony below

old buildings have monster doorstops sprouting in shadow, rubber tipped I'll have to be extra careful, choosing where my head will go

Ren Pike grew up in Newfoundland. Through sheer luck, she was born into a family who understood the exceptional value of a library card. Her work has appeared in Grain, The Interpreter's House, and Loch Raven Review. https://pike.headstaller.com