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whirling disease

sarah vap

. . .don’t suppose that fate’s any more than childhood’s density. Rilke

the bearded cloud—softest
possible for the baby blanket snapped out

before it’s hung to dry.

in loop-de-loops the fog lifts

to reveal our first white rainbow—the arc

whole, over our trot line’s whole arc, opposite
under the water.
baited for the fish who’s lost

his equilibrium, and then was released.

hundreds of waterbirds, in exact-unison, over the inlet—

the real birds with their reflection dance
for synchronized wintertime. the baby

under my heart watches me watch the rainbow,
watch the birds, and something in him must land, or

one bird fall back alone into the water, forgetting summer—

identical to the memory that sets the birds turning,
turning together, over winter’s bay

where a father
swam his whole life. the birds split in twos, and,

with the wind and their doubles, make
the flat blankets ovoid.