Fiction   Essays   Poetry  The Ten On Baseball Chapbooks In Memory

Mary Paulson


Youíre all mine.
I can take you and fold you
In a velvet-lined box. I can stretch you out
Like a blanket on the bed,
Roll myself, pulling the edge until Iím wearing you.
I can open up your chest and walk right in.
Tonight I am very large. I grow
as though someone is pumping air into me.
I am getting bigger every day.
I shine like a freshly cleaned window.

In The Doorbell Store

I pressed the low buzzer fifteen or twenty times,
started an organ chant between like bells,
round-robin of beautiful bells.
Bright bells, Christmas bells, three-note jig bells
as if to say "weíre coming!"
Announcement bell that says "theyíre here."
The promise of each bell shot through me --
pure electric current -- they cried out to be pressed
not once, but over and over again.
I rang every bell. Iím coming! Iím here! Hello!


The moon is in its
third quarter.
I dream itís late
and that you came
too quickly. My response
to your love sounds: winter
and freezing rain.
Lights on, I close
my eyes, see
your penis
unscrewed from your body,
left to dry on
soiled sheets.
You want to try again.
I cannot stand
touch, sound,
anything. Worms
with hurt green eyes
crawl over my skin, begging
In the borderland,
Iím a twisting leaf,
burned orange at
the edges.

©2005 by Mary Paulson

Mary Paulson's poetry has appeared in Nerve Cowboy, and is forthcoming in Main Street Rag. She lives in Hoboken, New Jersey, and works in New York as a Technical Writer/Analyst. She was featured as one of the Poets Among Us at the 2002 Geraldine Dodge Poetry Festival, and is currently working on creating a body of work for a first collection.

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