The Judas Ear

I invited the apostle to my stir-fry
        dinner by accident. I shook
into my smoking wok a packet of dried

wood ear mushrooms—the ones I’d bought
        from a farmers’ market. I threw in
a handful of broccoli, carrots, snap peas,
                halved Brussels. My husband

added the firm tofu he’d cubed
        on our walnut block. As the veggies

seared, David set the table while I stirred
        the crackling mélange right-handed
with a wooden spoon, held a cell phone
                in my left. I decided to look up

the mushroom’s other common names
        and found one—the Judas ear—that made me
drop my spoon, sent hot canola
                spitting at my wrist. The mushroom

looks like a whorled and ridged
        human ear sprouted from a tree trunk,
its canal tipped down as if listening for gossip,
                a far-off cough. Its flesh:

henna-colored, peach, or taupe. And it grows—
        this is the biblical part—on decaying bark,
including the rotted logs

and stumps of elders: same species of tree
        from which the suicide Judas
hangs himself after he learns Jesus
                will be crucified. All I’d

bargained for were mushrooms, but as I stared
        into the wok, I watched the Judas ears unfurl,
their dried fibers now plumped and sweet
                in the bubbling teriyaki. I thought of Dalí

posed in a photograph, deadpan next to a huge
        replica of the human ear. I thought of Emily
Dickinson. In one of her poems, she imagines

all mushrooms as the cumulative
        Judas-face of nature, since fungi thrive
in death and rot, betray the carbon
                bonds that hold our bodies,
and our earth, together. She brands

the mushroom using Judas’s surname:
        “an Iscariot.” It was almost a dare:

the rehydrated mushrooms sitting there, the Eat Me
        hovering, like a prompt on Alice’s
magical cakes in Wonderland. The last time

an Episcopal priest dropped a consecrated
        wafer on my eighteen-year-old tongue,

muttered, The body of Christ, the cup
of salvation, I pressed the Host
to my wet palate until the bread crumbled.
                What would the communion of Judas

now make in my mouth? What was there to do
        except turn the gas burner off, grab
a serving spoon, give the wok

one final shake, wonder who would betray
        whom after the first bite.