1.
I want a lover I can survive the end of the world with. And I mean that literally–when society and abstraction fail, I want someone who knows something about water and growth and soil, who knows how to live like an animal, according to the natural laws of the world, and not just the ones men make up for themselves. What do men’s laws matter if we can’t keep ourselves fed?
2.
Perhaps the real rage and tragedy of men is that we’ve outgrown them–evolved in such a way that renders them unnecessary for survival. I’m not dependent on a male of my species to procure goods or currency, I have no desire to reproduce, no offspring that need protection or raising. Most times, I do not need a man to use fists or weapons against other men who would use them against me–but I still don’t want to be alone at the end of the world.
3.
Most of my own needs have evolved past needs and into wants. And yet, the times I desire my lover most are when we are foraging in the forested acres behind the house, when he shows me which mushrooms we will smother with garlic and butter for dinner, make into stock for gravy, and which ones would kill us if we let them. The more mushrooms we pick, the less plastic-wrapped California-grown produce I’ll buy, and I know that he will never let me go unfed.
4.
My lover knows what deer trails to follow and which dead brush to peer under, what temperature and number of frosts are needed for their pale heads to pop open, like pale soufflés above the mulch. He knows which are fresh and which are past ripe, knows how many should be left unpicked to ensure new spores for next season. I watch him listen to the language of the Earth and think, this is how we survive the end of the world.
5.
He says, the woods will provide what you need if you’re stubborn enough to spend all afternoon looking. He is good at this–the stubbornness and the searching, knowing which oak trees I’ll find most beautiful, when my favorite wildflowers are in bloom, how to read my mood across my face, like a change of weather rolling in from the west. He understands the parts of me that stay hungry, even after I’m well-fed.
6.
Under the shade of the birch and maple trees, the distilled light of a September sun, I hold out a bright orange mushroom cap, the same color as the strain we’re searching for. He glances, then gently takes what is toxic from my hand, instead fills my overall pockets with shrimp and chicken of the woods. They will make good broth for later, the kind we’ll sip by the fire at the end of the world. From his rough hands, I accept both harvest and tenderness, learning all the many ways a person can be fed.
