The Rabbit In Paris, beneath the lush rooms of Waterlilies, the rabbit hangs by its feet, eye dilated and white, dead-eye, but whose brown fur feathers to be touched and then the copper jug suspended beside its back, orange bulb blooming, full of wine, perhaps, or stale water. Hunting trophy still life, remnant of moments-- of paw in dirt, view of grass, sound vibrating in ears, punctured flesh and torpid light before the aperture closed. One of a series of dead rabbits and hares, done after fish and forks and light-taut glass. A series of darkened walls hung with luminous fur, with jugs and a wisp, perhaps, of a flower. It is the suspension of fear-- the mouth forever frozen open, the suggestion of ribs that enclose the stilled heart, one ear dotted with the orange-red of the jug to balance the composition, to appease the eye’s need for symmetry, to provide some resolution to the rabbit hung, forever now, beyond death. Ann McGlinn Ann McGlinn has published short stories and poems in a variety of journals, including Art/Life, Poem, Cutbank, Rosebud, Quarterly West and The Flexible Persona. Her first novel, El Penco, was published by Cuidono Press in 2014. She lives in Chicago, Illinois.
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The Ekphrastic Review
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January 2021
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