Winona SaleskyVermont, vicariously [3], 2014 (gouache on paper 9" x 9")

With any marvel: the odd
hour. The sun absent, the

barn slant. You’re propped
in a half-loft that wouldn’t

stop a human child tumbling
onto the hay and birth sac

stage. The sounds: a rustle.
A wet thwump. One bleat

followed by the soft words
of a farmer who’d made this

in every way his living. Something
you did to later say you’d

done it—like drinking slivovitz
or wearing fishnets—watch a

live thing’s emerging, face
the odd danger of worlds

opening even as a mostly
lucent bubble still sheathes

some promised creature.


Sarah Wolfson