Trophy of Action 

My grandfather made a jackalope, 

A monstrosity, an abomination,

Out of meatless corpses and antlers shed. 

How is this any different from a poet 

Conjuring a fearsome critter from thin air?
I’ll tell you, she says, and then 

Old Jackie sings a raspy Lucinda Williams lilt, 

Turned up from whisky, she spills herself over the logs by the fire

And laughs when the bottle drips dry. 

Oh, a trophy of action! 

She lines her shelves with glass, takes one down,

Passes it around.