Saturday, September 8, 2012

The Archer

Her eyes two slits, precise as arrow
loops, turned parallel to earth and sky.
The plain wide, horizon stretched
elastic as the linen string pulled taut
against her chest, her limbs as narrow
as the precious longbow made of yew
back to belly, sapwood to heart

chin cupped as soft as Cupid’s
iron adorned with Quail fletch
bound with sinew as if to bone, ivory
thumb-ring wrapped against pain of draw.
She stands erect, width of foot to width
of shoulder, left side to his, three
fingers poised as if to pluck a delicate
harp. She stands unconscious, blind

to sight– there is no noise, save for
sudden movement of their hidden
song, warm tongue of fleshy pull
whoosh of flight, an earthly thud.

Her form collapsed around itself
recoiled in the torment of her mark.

Two bodies fall together, 
soft as purple clovers 
swathed black fields. 

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