I swallow around twigs,

try to ignore the nest

mistakenly built

in my belly,

the planet's extra revolutions,

my limbs becoming lakes,

the helpless beaks,

the frozen sky.

My husband waits

for brain surgery

while all I can do

with my dizziness,

with the somersaults,

with the frantic bird,

is to hold as still as possible,

eyes fixed on the horizon,

and pray not to fall.