Her madness was mere notion then.
by Frank Fagan
From behind our papier-mâché masks
we watched impassive as it grew.
There’s water in phase two: a soul’s
geography within a bowl, the vegetable
colors of her mind floating like islands.
At the last it was a singular thing,
as when a gourd is left on a thatched
roof in the sun, all rind, shaping
its roundness to perfection.