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.