My Bow

As I hear the light “thwang!” and
feel the soft “thud!” of the weapon's
string, a red piece of rubber, and its stock
as steady as a boat on calm seas.

As I hold it firmly and fire at
will, pressing the wooden trigger
close to my heart and I look at the flight,
I check the stuffed target
and for a hole in the ground
as the bolt eludes my sights.

As I go inside for tea and dessert,
the object of war lies untouched,
shrouded with an air of authority.

As I lie down in bed
with the bow by my side
the crossbow, my crossbow, leaks into my dreams.