Bent Arrow

Little Ant, my South Texas bowman,

            narrowing your range for loathsome God.

We were thirteen years old. You cried, I said

            nothing. What could I say? Here, take my arms.

Now plenty archers have fletched and drawn

            this turnip flesh through their nocking sockets,

            but these many years, do you remember my Word?

I swore our faggotropics would taste like peaches,

            and when string met anchor, was it not the sweetest?

We were eighteen years old. I cried, you said

            nothing. What could you say? Here, your arms.

My fucking arms. Little Ant, you were the first,

            the final ranger of my heart, where the After

            became lesser and the Now so much brighter.

Of course, we cannot slip through Heaven’s arches

            without some trickery, these four limping wrists,

            my wrought turnip feathers, your pious soft rot.

Whatever, whatever. You know that I will fling high

            into that big blinding catastrophe for you, Little Ant.

Just as Ahasuerus lurches on and on

            toward that cursed Second Coming, I swear:

Listen for my whistle, I will always come back

            until God reaches round for his cruel quiver

            and—to his demise—pricks my flaming head.