Patricia Clark


The world unhinged, aswirl, a tent uprooted—
stakes pulled out, sides billowing,
floor heaving,

just pulling on a shirt or looking up—
soaping my hair, streams of water tumbling
in the shower, 

awful realization, each eye flick, head
movement connects to the stomach’s
uneasy sea,

oh ocean-sick sailor, how will you board
the tanker for the next port, or climb
a mast? To walk

the room, I must hold on, not sure
where to plant right foot—then left—
grip, and clutch the wall.

How soon the stable world vanishes
for tilt, unsteady, sheer dread uncertainty,
yesterday remembered as granite floor.