by Rob Engle
At once, night has arrived.
Inside the house, each room has gone up in light.
A cup of coffee left from breakfast has since grown cold
and now overpowers the counter. It screams to stay
unwanted. Truly terrifying, but what else is there to do?
Kill each candle between two decisive fingers?
Approach kitchen through backdoor for best possible outcome?
Everything is always happening in the room where no one lives
or not, but you don’t know what I’ve done once
the dishes have been stacked away.
I’ve filled the tub high with cool water. I’ve gotten in and touched
myself only when I’m under. I stop, I listen. I try
to get my hands around my shape. I make a move
of great displacement and imagine what this looks like
from a new perspective. Then I
trade places with the water.
Rob Wilson Engle is a editor, poet and personal trainer. In short, he scrutinizes your grammar and squats for a living. A graduate of Marshall University, Rob currently lives in Brooklyn and works at Edelman, the world’s largest public relations firm. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in DIAGRAM, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Profane, Phantom and elsewhere
Follow him on Twitter (@robwilsonengle), Instagram (@robwilsonengle), and check out his website.