Circle in Vermont
Laura Cesarco Eglin
We pick mushrooms out of cow shit.
Me, I can’t tell one from the other,
but Brad, with his clever aptitude for everything,
can tell which will make you sick,
which will send you soaring.
Soaring is not my style. I’m earth-bound.
I think it’s because I’m a girl. I want walls, fortification,
indoor plumbing, black stone double slipper soaking tub,
carerra marble floor set in herringbone pattern.
A vast, unfurled sky makes me edgy, nauseous—
Still, it’s good to know how to fly, to know
the feeling of those loose, beating wings behind your ribs
is not for nothing. We sail back
to our friend’s cabin with stars dripping from our eyes.
Twelve hours later, there are five of us laughing
so hard, tears stain our cool cotton shirts dark.
Jordan is blind, Brad is God, Dan is nursing his wounds,
Tim has learned to play guitar. I am busy preparing
a nest for all of us, circling my arms and legs into a giant O.
Mary Paulson’s writing has been featured in multiple publications, most recently in Tipton Poetry Journal, The Metaworker Literary Magazine, Months to Years, Speckled Trout Review, Fleas on the Dog and Chronogram. Her chapbook, Paint the Window Open was recently published by Kelsay Books. She currently resides in Naples, Florida.