In Paris, beneath the lush rooms
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.
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 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.
The Ekphrastic Review
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