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.