September
September 1st, 2006
Archery class fugue
Vertebrae fuse as I slip out
my spinal cord, attach it to the bow,
feel the flex and tension
as the fletches sit snug.
Something medieval,
dark age, winds its way
through my arms,
elbows, fingers.
I am yew tree.
Holding fast and poised
over the interstice between centuries.
After the third arrow flies
straight as a wish
I check the bow string for elf-locks
before feeding it back,
shiver by shiver
through my skull,
through nub of bone
until warmth returns to my skin
and I remember who I am.
first published by The London Magazine
Entry Filed under: Poems