Aisle on Tilt

Fluorescent flickers stutter above,

rows of beans and sauces blur in sway.

I clutch the cart—a raft—my fingers rough,

while jars behind me tremble in disarray.

Labels float, identical, slipping out of reach,

shadowed shelves breathe a slow, shuddering moan.

The world leans like a poorly told speech,

I lean too, but the aisle won’t hold its own.

A jar rattles sharp, a loose syllable breaks,

and my breath stutters in the sudden tilt.

Grasping the shelf, every sense awakes—

but the light hums still, uneven and wilted.

I steady myself where the cold linoleum groans,

waiting for the ground to grant a straight line.

The aisle holds its tilt, a slow, spinning throne,

a moment unbalanced, neither yours nor mine.