—After Aquaform by Pauline Aitken

I see art in the body and the body in art
no matter where I look on this wall:
in canvases, in my son’s darting shadow.

Aquaform, with its nucleus at the heart,
membranes and organelles I’ll call
these shapes, and I’ll make this a window

to consider seizures, how they part
neurons and words, how they stall
my son’s learning. Mine feels shallow:

on a gallery walk, thoughts start.
I focus first, then fall
into paint, into cells, into sorrow.

*

Into paint, into cells, into sorrow
I focus first, then fall.
On a gallery walk, my thoughts start—

my son’s learning. Mine feels shallow.
Neurons and words—how they stall
to consider seizures, how they part

these images and make this a window.
Membranes and organelles I’ll call
Aquaform, with its nucleus at the heart.

In canvases, in my son’s darting shadow,
no matter where I look on this wall,
I see art in the body and the body in art.