Fixed Point

The ceiling tilted left

when I stood up.

I sat back down

and it kept going—

the window trading places with the wall,

the floor tilting under the bed,

the whole room deciding

it had been level long enough.

I pressed both palms flat on the mattress.

Lay back down.

Found the water stain near the light fixture—

brown, roughly the shape of a state I couldn't name—

and held it with my eyes

until the room agreed

to stop.

It took eleven minutes.

I counted at some point

and then lost track

and then found the count again.

The stain didn't move.

That was the whole job.

Just: don't move.

I kept thinking about how much of staying upright

depends on something fixed

that doesn't know it's fixed—

something that just sits there

in the middle of its own damage,

not trying,

not even aware

of what it's holding.