Two Poems by Ezekiel Finkelstein

in the morning

i lay my cheek

on my loves cheek

and see her lash

and flutter to

and then away,

wings flapping

with quick ease,

as an eyes blink.

an egg,

left exposed,

green and orange,

somewhat moist,

senses me not,

so close am i

and then does,

unsure which

way to turn

this new day,

its boy-love too near

its watch full of fear

motherhood and necessity

mother is a strict determinist,

telling me to fuel my engine

or fatten up my nerves;

tends to trace my mind

to roast brisket.

her mothers warmth

measures in calories—

iron-aproned instinct

or Newton in drag.

Ezekiel Finkelstein writes, teaches, collages, philosophizes (that is, learns how to die), and haunts the used bookstores, cafes and streets of his native New York City. His short story "Clayton and the Apocalypse" won a Glimmer Train prize in 2015, and his condensed epic, or essay in political epistemology, "Falling in Love with the Unconquered Real," published in [SIC] 1, received a Special Mention in Pushcart; he has also published poems and articles (aside from "the" and "a"). There is a lot of unpublished work, verse and prose (really, sometimes it's hard to tell which is verse): Teyku. He is the lone permanent faculty member of The University of The Lower East Side in Exile and has, for many summers, whenever possible, been the main librarian and only biblio-architect at The Cannery at South Penobscot in Maine. He is tired, but having some of his earlier work published in The Cenote is helping to keep him going. He likes to talk to strangers; that's why he stays in New York.