Issue Thirty-Two - Summer 2018


By Sandra Kolankiewicz

The point is what allows the rest of the
arrowhead to enter the flesh of a
honey crisp apple set on the fence post
while you reach back over your shoulder toward
your quill, intent on splitting the fruit in
two, not listening when she tries to speak,
attempts to say what you don’t want to hear
as you find the notch, pull back, align in
your sight the cock and hens, the feathers trimmed
and stiff, ready to act like some kind of
keel through the air steering us toward what we’ll
find is the meaning of love: allowing
ourselves to be pierced by what we fear.

Copyright Kolanklewicz 2018