The Center of Gravity

The trophy in the closet is plastic gold,

a girl in a leotard frozen in flight.

It’s a version of me that didn't feel old

or find the floor such a terrifying sight.

My niece asked for a cartwheel in the yard

so I lunged for the grass with a confident grin.

But the physics of the thing were suddenly hard

and my balance was paper-flat and thin.

I tumbled sideways into the hydrangea leaves,

a mess of limbs and heavy, slow bone.

Now there are grass stains on my sleeves

and a gravity I’ve never truly known.