The Arc of the Huntress

Nomad woman walks

the idled pale between

the city’s concrete caverns—

)⋆~→~⋆→ shrish—frsk—crunch…

Shh—

the hush

and ever-wait

of Autumn hunt:

a heartbeat gnawing at

her wishroot while

she roams.

*

Nomad woman is

a wilding spurned

of yearning’s bloom

and forest’s fruit—

a song of must,

forbidden, and

still sleeping in

the loam.

(eat, eat, eat…)

*

Nomad woman is

mosaic,

pining,

stillfire, pieced

together—she

is drifting, aimless,

like a leaf—

though her arrow keeps

its fine-point fixed upon

her daydream’s frail

and meager wings—

her anchor arm,

and drawing arm

forever tethered to

the open arc—in waiting—

of her bow.

)⋆~→~⋆→ shhhk—twng—thrummm…

(the air around her tightens as

she breathes the string

of tension in

and whispers through

her cheek: )

"Come hither, dove—

fly home to me

so that I might forge rather

than feast upon

thy lark-like,

cherub bones,

and be fain to catch thou not—

perhaps the scent

of thy sweet marrow might

unbeast me."

)⋆~→~⋆→ thrrrp—creeek—thwip!

(miss—

Nomad woman’s left

with only whistle-purr

as mourning flock

takes flutter from

the street:

)⋆~→~⋆→ fwrrr—frwrrr—fweep!

and the vagabond within her is

forsaken—

a shadow on

the empire’s edge.

*

Nomad woman is no less

the pulse of Artemis

than she’s become

the battle-queen, Athena—

rawr—rawr—rawr!

the bloodsong in

her war-marred heart:

the quest for poetry

and kismet as

she wanders without home.

She is steel-souled,

hungered,

tortured to the point of break

and ruin, yet

she raids,

and roars,

and rises in her fury—may

the world afore her have

God’s mercy.

"Do I frighten thou, dear thing?

Is my strength the reason

little fawns

evade me?

I do not wish to eat thou, I

shall be thy sworn

protector, this:

I promise."

*

Nomad woman knows

the way of hunt and gather is

an art form—one long lost

to herd of farmers’

sheep.

For this,

her craving for the chase has deemed

her essence a

rogue monster.

(meat, meat, meat…)

*

But at the core of all

the primal burn

within her, one

de

si

der

a

tum

thrums—

a drumbeat not to brandish fang

of grizzlies but

to bear a tender,

swaddled beauty—

one of newness, one

of love—

and for this,

Nomad woman hunts.

"Come hither, sweet, small sparrow—

to cage thou is

to carve thee, and

to carve thy supple meat

from mine own hip shall see

you flower from

my rust—should thou find the will

to trust me."

*

)⋆~→~⋆→ shrish—frsk—crunch…

Nomad woman wields her bow and arrow

with

the prowess of a tempest hurling

javelins of light,

and yet

she searches, still—

a creature chained to fickle winds

and wishes.

)⋆~→~⋆→ shhhk—twng—thrummm…

She advances,

stalking clouds with nets

and tiger eyes—

two amber suns

that cling

and grasp

to slivered glints

of new moons’ ghosts—

)⋆~→~⋆→ thrrrp—creeek—thwip!

And, like this,

Nomad mother bids the waning crescent

double as

her waiting cradle and

her crossbow.

Sleep, sleep, sleep, my little cub—

until the hunt is done and I

have found thee.

🏹🤍