You fill my quiver
In the Great Seclusion,
You drew back Your bow.
I draw back mine now
to escape this great, desperate seclusion –
an arrow hurled across the space between us;
cleaving the Oneness You insist exists.
Yes, this poem says, like any other --
I am not You; We are not One;
heart is not Heart; throat is not Ear.
Yet, this is our parley and our communion.
You fill my quiver. I empty it, a note
of praise and complaint attached to each shank.
How did the world change
when Krishna abandoned His flute
for arrows, quiver and bow?
When Cupid first unfurled his wings
and went beating about
doing God’s bidding?
O child of God, pray to become God’s prey.
A good poem is an arrow sunk deep in the chest.