by Rob Wilson Engle
Ships to Tarshish are always headed into storm.
Here I give you my supinated arms with fingers
curling lightly like the Mediterranean.
I am an archipelago of inconvenience.
Will this Wednesday work for you?
I’m tired again so I stare at the sundial
and you make the sun come and go,
go and come. I feel tree-like. This sunlight
makes me not want to be meek tonight.
I roll the sleeves of my flannel shirt
to just comfortably below the elbow.
She drinks long islands and says it drives her crazy.
I talk about how I’ve heard of parties where you
have to drink down a goldfish just to get in the door.
Fate writhing in the bottom of a plastic cup.
Will I be able to inherit the Earth tonight?
I wake up in sweat and a pucker of sheets.
You are an accelerating pillar of sunlight
pulling past men onto crumbling pedestals.
Morning moans like the hungry belly
of a whale as I cast lots with fish bones. Fate is
my peach pit mouth navigating this palpable dark.
Rob Wilson Engle is a native of southwestern Pennsylvania. He is currently an undergraduate at Marshall University pursuing degrees in Broadcast Journalism and Creative Writing. In just a few weeks, Rob will be living in Manhattan, interning with the world’s largest public relations firm, Edelman.