LEAVING LION'S MANNER REUBEN CANNING FINKEL

​

there are eyes trained on my uncle & I as we escape
out Corrigan Street & slowly approach the wharf

 

& it needs to be said right off the bat: this place is not

my home, because for now I am nine years old & very far away from everything familiar: street signs, take-out

restaurants, arterials & on-ramps, statues of saints

 

furthermore,

I'm not calling all wild animals sacred

(though they are)—just a rare coincidence, a sharp thought burrowed deep

& they do not always
represent an island unto themselves,

they are only hungry things treading too close to the town’s center

 

a few minutes pass, we stop in our tracks as two shapes

emerge from the hill’s edge—these are mother & son, tall

 

moose—their heavy breathing

beneath the ring of trees has a low rattle to it almost like aeroplane engines shutting down or ocean water

at a low boil, their dark fur strange & wonderful

as so many other objects in the world that surround them:

 

clay

potato skin
studded tires

 

& we just stay locked in place,

we do not reach the water’s edge; we keep staring

carefully at those animals close enough to touch & they gawk
right back in kind, blinking every so often when the wind picks up

 

in this particular silence, my uncle tells me

everything will be ok

but I don’t really believe him at all & the moose leave

shortly thereafter, moving through that giant green map they know by heart.