a poetry e-zine










John Grey

She's awed and repulsed by the trophies
on the wall, pathetic beasts, stuffed

and mounted, eyes wide open forever.
I go every year, he announces, hunting

trips in Maine. Even now,
the fur hasn't faded, antlers refuse

to droop. A man is a cabin, she concludes.
He is walls and gun racks and brick

fireplaces with stacks of cut
wood, their neatness belying the fact

they're begging to burn. Have a drink,
he says, plugging the holes in her

inhibitions with cool, wet glasses.
The stereo kicks in, every tune an overture.

He encourages her to look up, to spend
a while in a world of high ceilings,

deer and fox, moose and raccoon,
all of these heads where their bodies can't find them.

John Grey is an Australian born poet. He has been recently published in International Poetry Review, Sanskrit and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Clackamas Literary Review, New Orphic Review and Nerve Cowboy.

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