Archery

It’s like touching without touching,

except when there is, also, touching.

We pull the bowstrings back

and parallel together,

aiming a handsbreadth higher

than we believe we intend,

and let the glove move where we draw the wire,

scared that the machinery

will misinterpret us,

that we may not stop trembling, that we may lose

our belief in ourselves

before anything is released, or shared, or sent.

And yet we trust the notch to know

the whereabouts of the bow,

and trust the tail or fletching

of each salvo to astonish

the target as soon as it gets there, to make its point

within its nest of Os and Os and Os.

Our belts and buckles try to keep the secrets

we have begun to decide

that, later, we want to expose.

There is the rest of our group, and there is the river,

and that is called the kisser, the stabilizer

on your shoulder. Do what I do. You have time.

Put your hand over my hand. That feels nice.

No longer too young

to participate in this activity, we have become

the elevated counselors

of the air, which will not take

anything but our most forceful advice.