Sailing on Tuesday
She built molten ships with rotten arugula from the store,
celestial towers run amok through an overly damp sea
& who watches the hold, anyway, who captains the
refrigerator with its plug alone on the wood, the food
warmer & warmer every day like summer. She empty,
the arugula wet like sink-turned towlettes, the ship a
bridge beyond her ocean countertops & lighthouse
towered walls, she sat & watched green sail from her
nails like a seaweed sunset. A handful left in her left
palm, a mermaid folded into a clam, a pirate so fierce
he bedazzled his peg-leg, stamped a crystal on his eye-
patch. What is the ocean if not an exile exonerated?
What could be more glorifying than living atop
a green sea, a salad spinning tornado, a tomato-less
haven wet as grape seeds? Each leaf fell from her
to an open trash, not bothering to board with a ticket,
no wristbands for seasickness on their stems. She
put the ship away by its hull, slinking each flag &
sail stich by stich under her shirt, the arugula a
missing fountain, overturned airwaves, lost as sea.
Sam Herschel Wein (he/they) is a lollygagging plum of a poet who specializes in perpetual frolicking. They are an MFA candidate in poetry at the University of Tennessee-Knoxville. Their third chapbook, Butt Stuff Flower Bush, is faggotly forthcoming from Porkbelly Press. He co-founded and edits Underblong. Recent work can be found in Split Lip Magazine, Waxwing Mag, and Shenandoah, among others. Gaze at their beautiful website at www.samherschelwein.com.
