Picture Bill Faulkner with a shot gun,
a million miles from Yoknapatawpha,
Mr. West at his side, screenplays
buzzing through their brains,
liquor waiting in the hip flask.
A wild boar sways from scrub oak
awaiting the meat seeking ritual.
I have done this before, or at least,
have seen it done, one of them lies.
Don’t cut the urine sack: aim precisely,
carving out the tender loins for stew.
Make sure the knife shines sharp (Swiss
Army will not suffice), douse your boots
in the slain beast’s juices, not to act
macho (Hem would have a field day),
but to waterproof walks back up the gulch.
Forget nitwits who don’t understand
we are artists, true purveyors of the word
made celluloid for the payday buck.
A sanctuary, a self-forgetting, two lonely-
hearted screenwriters on an island hideaway
searching for an easy kill on holly,
wood, and vine tangled escarpments.
Marc Malandra’s work has appeared in nearly thirty different venues, including Ascent, Caveat Lector, Flyway, Orange Coast Review, Poetry Northwest, and South Florida Poetry Review. He teaches American literature at Biola University in La Mirada, California.
*Photo courtesy of stewartmorris.