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Glass Ceiling

Because she wanted to teach me a lesson
      about the natural world, my grandmother raised
Her .22 rifle—we were rabbit hunting, so the shotgun
      was at home under her blue chintz pillow—and brought
A quail down on the covey rise. Impossible shot
      you may be thinking. True. I said "my grandmother"
Because if I'd said "my mother" you wouldn't believe
      a word of it, since a mother should be leading
A research group, or running a software company,
      but a grandmother still can dress in buckskin
And ride a fabulous palomino, doing handstands
      on the saddle, executing trick shots blindfold
With a musket, reloading on the fly, while deep
      in the underbrush I gather the rabbits to me
And we tremble together in the riptide of her passing.

T. R. Hummer

After the Afterlife
Acre Books

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