dressed in camouflage,
she likes to disappear that
way, gray and green-blotched,
face paint completes her disguise,
she picks up her bow at first light and
slips into the forest,

during the hardest of
winters, the incisor scrapes,
I feel her sharp bite, in time, the
the scars turn black, our aspen tree
trunk black from snowline to neckline,
and a band of stain in the winter where
she shoots her arrow into our carved heart
initials, my heart bleeds,

to hold a weapon in
her hand, to know that
with the right application
of skill, persistence, and luck,
it is possible to take the heart of
another,

I wonder why I am
her quarry, with her arrow
and the strength of her arm on
the bow, aspen resin on a fresh
and still bleeding heart, what does
it feel like to be the quarry? Ask the
wolf.  What can I know about the need
to hide and to listen closely to the sounds
and test the wind for danger?

it raises the hairs
on the back of my
neck, it makes me want
to find a secure place, and
suddenly, the branch snaps,
I look up, a clean white scar
where the broadtip slices my heart
again, the arrow stuck almost to the
shaft in the scarred bark of an aged aspen,
too deep to pull out.  There is no blood on it.
She unscrews the shaft and leaves the broadhead
lodged in our carved heart initials...my heart bleeds...


Copyright 2006 Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist