Elk Call by Sarah Summerson

Allen stood on the banister of the wrap
around porch the pink and purple spindles
of what the neighbors called the Christmas house
on account of all the lights
he cupped his hands round his mouth
like to warm them
covered the better half of his face
let out the sound of a cracking
voice a pre-puberty bugle of a belted
blow so strutted from his throat it appeared
like a glug of batter on a hot griddle
sizzling a guttural gravel driveway climbing
to a high wet peak a drift
of smoke sound
an unbearable wail