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Nothing is as painful as an arrow

shot clean between ribs. It sears the flesh,

lodges in the nest of nerves below the breast;

the heart shrinks, vision narrows, breath shallows,

 

no fight, nor flee; just, me frozen in place;

and just out of reach, the dog-eared manual;

What is step one? Fire: make tinder bundle

from dry debris; then try to leave no trace.

 

Years later the scar will still show, reflected

In the bathroom mirror. Through steam and sweat,

the hand-swiped blur, you will lift one sagged breast

 

examine the dimpling, the pearl-grey sheen

of puckered flesh, the knot, gather of skin,

the little tickler; the traces that love still leaves.