Ode to the Hunt

James McGuire Walking on the frozen lake

I am walking on the frozen lake On top of the water, on top of the ice, on top of the snow And I am crying. Don’t ask, my tears are my own.

As the tears freeze to my face on the frozen lake, I remember Dante shivering in the lowest circle, And laugh that I would remember Dante and think about literature now Since I am crying, but my mind won’t stay on one thing.

Foot prints in the white snow that uncover the grey ice. Above are the bluffs, that have always been there And will always be there quiet and firm.

And above those bluffs, bleak and hazed is the white sun Drowning in the grey clouds. Or maybe it is pressing through.

Ode to the Hunt Luke Wilcox

Game dear to me, In the chase of laced Victoria Lavender perfume leaves dull Purple streaks in the air which Bears perforations from people Passing through the olfactory haze, A jagged line from a treasure map In the stale air. Contestants prepare in walk-in closets, Conflicting over patterns and a lack Of Camouflage. Canary yellow has Never been so subtle. Pinstriped Night cats bait cougars, forgetting The feline balance of power. Sincerely Chase, I adore you, Even though I cannot stand The gore of a successful hunt: Splatters of clothing sundered From contestant’s bodies, false Words hanging in the air overhead, Waiting to be remembered, And if they snared well They get polished and set Next to the buckshot. Do belts with more notches fit better? And is the purpose of removing a ring To venture to get another? Game that favors none, You accept any willing.

Time – and again – traps Are staged in downtown bars Or coffee shops (both which serve Cheap beer).