Deep in the woods, beyond my reach
I know certain birds reside.
They call my name in morningsong,
mourning my inability to reach
where they must be found.
Come to me instead, I reply,
wishing fervently for a path…
A path in the woods where I would not be lost
to the seductions of the ferns.
Inability. It is such a strange word.
Am I truly unable to find these birds?
Their blue heads and white-tipped wings,
with arrows sticking from their breasts.
Their feathers are sparse around
the old timed wound,
And they have grown to
survive their stopped hearts.
No, instead I am unwilling.
Unwilling is a better word.
I do not wish to be stabbed in the foot
by arrows that may land upon the dirt.
The hunters are after me too,
I know they are.
You told me so.
Yet if I am unable to find the birds,
Surely the hunters will find
my cold body drained of blood.
If I venture into the thicket
of thorns and bristles
who wish to cling to my clothes so they survive,
if I find the grove where
the dying birds rejoice in my
assumed victory…
I think I should reach out
with desperate hands,
grab a bird to hold tight
despite its frantic fights,
Because isn’t there something so poetic
about killing that bird twice?
Then I should remember the lullabies,
the ones they wove for me.
I release the bird into the sky
and stare down my chest–
at the arrowhead
sunken deep and true
and I know that I mustn’t set out for the
Archer’s heart too.
Because
this is not
the true home of the birds.
I think I know that now.