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.