I long for the polished curve 

of the archer’s bow,

the creak of the straining string,

the cramped nestling of my family

in the choking leather musk of the quiver.

The only happiness I know

is the bleeding spirals of the target,

the satisfaction of perfect aim,

the thunk of the arrowhead 

sliding into notched wood

like a key clicking in a lock,

like hand slipping into hand,

like a lost child finally finding home.

The only langauge I understand

is the song of flight,

the melody of wind and motion

as the rigid straightness of my shaft

slices scars into the yielding air,

my fletched feathers 

a bright exclamation point

in the story of my body.