Churn

                   after Katie Mack

Heavy and humming, my seven-year-old sprawls 
across my lap, watching Bluey on her tablet, 

the one where the mom tells the kid 
what she does first when having a hard time. 

Have a little cry. At my desk, I’m trying, on one monitor, 
to join a work video call. On the other,

an article from a few years back: 
how scientists discovered gravitational waves 

oscillate, pulsing through us, the vibrations,
perhaps, of galaxies colliding, or eating

each other… These resonant behemoths 
drifting above in the cosmic deep.

The loading icon’s ouroboros keeps spinning.
In the corner of the screen, a reminder 

to finish tax returns chimes. From downstairs,
after my partner says Damn, I forgot the butter, 

back in a bit, text me if you think of anything else
the door shuts, locks. My daughter laughs—

even the sad episodes can be funny.
Shifting positions, I try to flex feeling

back into my toes. Even now, those unfathomably 
large, distant things stir the space-time we share, 

will share, what would always be changing 
the shape of us. Even now. 

In my pocket, a phone vibrates.
Whatever's waiting out there. God,

she's getting so big.

ZACH JEPSEN

Originally from North Carolina, Zach Jepsen currently resides in Brooklyn, New York, with his family. He earned his Master’s degree in poetry through Warren Wilson College’s MFA Program for Writers and is a member of the Charlotte Lit community. He is a veteran of the United States Marine Corps.