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.
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.