we’re at the playground, where all stories start:
           my daughter, in a toddler swing, is getting addicted
           to centripetal forces. I orbit, entering her atmosphere
           to give another push before the dog’s nose pulls me
           away, frantic as an inbox chime.

later, the gynecologist becomes astrologer:
           clicking through my ultrasound images, she swears
           the starry white bodies deep in my pelvis are all
           shining rightly, nothing is wrong. so the pain is
           phantom? I ask. vestigial spirit? an echo?

now I’m in the kitchen, which is also studio:
           I paint tomatoes, cumin, goat cheese
           on cast iron. the blood in my hand becomes
           garlic-tinged milk. I wonder if to make art
           you must be aware you’re making art.

then I’m in bed, theorizing at midnight:
           at times when something terrible could have
           happened, a parallel story in which it did
           unravels slowly beside me. compelled by
           circular acceleration, I haunt the threshold.

afterward, morning seeps back in:
           what came together in sleep – hundreds of
           bats invisible against the blackened sky,
           moving as a single body through my dreams –
           breaks into a multitude of asynchronous wings.