Winona Salesky, Vermont, 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.