Birmingham
Poetry
Review

In the Produce Aisle

A click in the head.
A gentle rolling over
like some ancient timepiece

then

go the legs

out from under.

Unsteady on her feet
they say,
a kind of
lightheadedness,
vapors,
or a swoon
        like some Victorian lady

and out come the smelling salts.

I used to be articulate.
Now the words are
simple verbs,
without tense

                less effort—

                        the mind decides

for you.

Or no word
at all,

you come to the part of the sentence that requires the word artichoke
and

nothing.

You're staring at it
as the mist falls upon in in the produce aisle.
Surely there's a sign somewhere
reminding you
what to call
this strange fruit—

University Disclaimer