7.02 / February 2012

Arrow

ARROW (1)

An arrow, even Cupid’s, carries a slant of sorrow at its tip.

ARROW (2)

The thump it makes when hitting mark is felt across the space: an arrow straight to the heart.

ARROW (3)

In the space between the letting go and arrival there is grace.

ARROW (4)

The longer the shot, the greater the loft. This is the world of gravity.

ARROW (5)

Each arrow learns the pain of time and space, the small corruptions altering its course. None ever made a bull’s eye.

ARROW (6)

When you pull back the bow, left arm extended as far as it can go right hand holding nock near chin, back arched, in that moment before the arrow’s launched, stretched to your limit, I find you beautiful.

ARROW (7)

Pierced through by your arrow I bleed bliss, unable to staunch the wound.

ARROW (8)

If there was not an arrow, this life would be a narrow and harrowing existence.


Robert Rothman graduated from the University of California at Berkeley, undergraduate and graduate school (J. D.). He lives in Northern California, near extensive trails and open space, with the Pacific Ocean over the hill. His writing is done early in the day when his family is asleep. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Grey Sparrow, and the Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry.
7.02 / February 2012

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