Tilt

By Mary Paulson

I’m on an axis: tilt, 
whirl, I’m on a reel. I’ve 
the sensation of time moving 
too far away, too 
fast. If a dream is a doorway,
I’m late. I’m petrified I’m 
way too late. Look, my hand—
the skin is thinning, I’m 
fading, evaporating—
madness, this 
descending feeling, a drop deep, 
steep down some lunatic 
rabbit hole. Drugs 
tonight. I’ll need 
drugs to unwind all these 
bewildering things—
paint peeling and 
walls melting. The ceiling 
floating upwards, me growing
under-sized. The alarming, hostile 
bleeding of every object in 
my room. Whether 
or not I’m devolving in a manner 
suggestive of a spinning top is 
not the point. Whether 
or not my behavior trills a menacing 
melody is not exactly 
the point. It will take years to 
dust off everything and say, yes, 
this goes here, that 
goes there and this 
is why, this
is why.

Mary Paulson’s writing has appeared in multiple publications, most recently in Discretionary Love, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Poetica Review, Orchards Poetry Journal and DASH Literary Journal. She also has poems forthcoming in The Pomegranate London and Amethyst. Her debut chapbook, Paint the Window Open was published by Kelsay Publishing in 2021. She’s recently completed a full-length collection, (working title) Telling. She lives in Naples, FL.