Reuben Canning Finkel

: house fire

 

leap from the flame
& into these big
bald vacant streets

​

you lick the air 
as if it were a salt-block, 
               each hoof 
clop a glint of sparks 
hot enough 
to kick the air unconscious 

​

so fuck the reins,
rain, soon enough

foam will build 
up like spit, 

the efforts of your sex
only smolder & husk

again, again, again

​

all spectacle
and ash
and embarrassment. 
 

​

​

​

: ocean

​

we do not cut water
by the rise 
of our strength 

​

instead, the route out
is raw
and chewing tide, 

and I don’t quite understand
how to hold both oars

​

but soon something 
like a rhythm 
coughs into pace

​

& we escape the cove
to see this earth’s face
all bruised red, 
               rock pikes 
spearing the sky’s palette
like wisdom teeth

​

the stubble of landslides
and hawk’s nests 
and brief pouts of moss
as bright as steamed broccoli

​

steep & belonging
to no one
to nothing.  
 

​

​

​

: taxi cab

​

we’re inside your belly now
& there’s gunk
all over these polyester seats
that sticks our skin like margarine 

​

99.1’s blaring fuss, seat-belts
tight as intestinal string,
the flat smell 
of barbequed ribs
smothering the air & hot

​

we do not take shortcuts,
                       the car
shrugs into every stop-sign
then stalls, coughs up 
engine bunk 

​

but a good song 
comes on, 

​

so

​

I tap my feet. 
 

 

 

 

 

 

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Reuben Canning Finkel is a poet and musician living in St. John's, Newfoundland. His work has appeared in Frontier Poetry, Free Framed, Riddle Fence, Projector Magazine and Paragon. Reuben is a recent graduate from Memorial University with an B.A. (Hons) in English and Philosophy.