Monday, January 15, 2018

Arrow by Beth Bachmann


Arrow

I lived and died like an animal.
If death by arrow, death by feather,
death by sweet spot.
Heel;
rise, red dog.
I see now what you’ve been sniffing:
wings.
What you’ve been licking:
all those bright, bright teeth.
You said, Angel.
I said, Anchor
dragging this body.
The way the sea is
the vein is.
The doctors advise,
Too late now;
you’ve got to live
with it in you.

 

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