STABILISER
My eyes floated
towards nearby archers
with their candy pink,
flame red,
mustard yellow bows,
suspended between their hands
with the wristband, like a yo-yo
rocking back and forth like a cradle—
their stabilisers, the anchor.
The weighted rod branches
from the front of the bow,
like another limb
to maintain balance, sharpen precision.
Bows sway, crescent-shaped, lulls my anxiousness to slumber,
I’ve never owned a stabiliser.
ARTEMIS
My second friend was a Hoyt Olympic recurve bow.
My arrows’ fletching were feathery fiery reds & bright whites.
I fired them into the foam bail target, earning myself
a proud gold disc glistening in the summer sky.
For once, I conquered something out of my reach,
The target, some twenty yards away.
My future, even farther.
My present—a waning crescent.
My home housing a sinkhole. Irreversible.
As we descended into homelessness,
I don’t know when
My arrows lost their fletching, their points,
halved the length & soul, strength & heart.
TWILIGHT OF THE ARCHER
Hollow holes plastered our sheetrock walls.
Tonight, she gifted me an onyx black recurve bow.
It had a militaristic feel to it, with its neon orange grip.
I struggled to hold it in my palm. My arm, a collapsing bridge.
I barely drew the string back, before launching the arrow
with its metallic tip, into the weak wall.
I was aiming & shooting incorrectly.
I wasn’t trained, back then
Oh, the damage I could cause.
Heaven Santiago is from Brooklyn, NY. She is expected to receive her MFA degree in Creative Writing this May. She has attended the Barrelhouse conference for writers in Washington, D.C. twice. She writes in multiple styles within poetry.
Multimedia poetry account: @poetry_from_an_archer
Featured image in this post is, “Changlimithang Archery Ground, Thimphu, Bhutan” by Bernard Gagnon, licensed via creative commons 2.0 via Wikimedia Commons.
