By The Skin on My Palms

I am a Sagittarius,

an archer,

bow drawn taut,

scanning the horizon.

.

I perch, then wander,

forever moving,

pursuing,

craving.

.

Something moves below me.

I grab my bow—

aim,

shoot.

.

I close my eyes and listen.

The bowstring hums,

and then—

.

thwack:

a hit.

.

Finally.

.

I clamber toward you,

heart a-quiver,

reaching,

desperate.

.

I can be free.

After all this time…

.

I can breathe,

now that I have you,

have it—

I will be…

.

But—

but no.

.

I drop my head to my chest.

.

It—

it isn’t—

it isn’t you.

.

I notch the bow,

a symbol of another miss—

hundreds of marks

that raise blisters on my hands.

.

I am running out of room—

on the bow,

on my palms.

.

I pick up my kill,

disgusted:

just a master’s degree.

It crumples into my bag.

.

But there,

in the clearing—

.

hope.

.

I rush on silent feet.

It’s you.

I see you.

.

You’re really there,

really here.

.

I raise my bow—

swish—

.

I close my eyes,

listen—

.

thud:

an arrow striking dirt.

.

Again.

Often.

Always.

.

You look at me,

startled.

.

You ask,

“What on earth are you doing?”

.

I load my bow,

another arrow.

.

The sweetness of relief

fills my mouth.

I am so close.

.

Swish.

Thud.

.

You walk away,

shaking your head.

.

I mark my notches,

stare at the arrows.

.

I am a Sagittarius,

fated to try,

to strive.

.

I wipe my bleeding hand in the grass—

soft, warm,

comfort,

.

just for a moment.

.

But no.

I must move.

It’s slipping away.

.

I resume my pursuit—

for her,

for it

.

for my mother’s approval.