The Sixtieth Arrow

THE SIXTIETH ARROW

You brush your hair out of your eyes
And glance down range
At the small blue-rimmed circle
You've been concentrating on all day,
Until your head spins, a swirl of blue and white.

But this lollipop vision is not what you want.
You must block out all thoughts of blue -
Your palette is limited
To the three inch circle of white in the center.

You select an arrow to carry out the mission;
Its only task - to seek and destroy
The white circle, to stab
The thin paper heart-
A clean crime,
No blood,
Only a small neat hole.

You remind yourself to breathe
As you load the arrow
Into your camo-colored bow.

Your arms whine
As you gradually pull back the string,
But you ignore their burning pleas for rest.

You squint through the sight,
One eye closed,
And waver the bow

Until the 20 yard pin lines up,
Until yellow meets white.

Steady she goes
As you flick your thumb,
Opening the thin metal hook,
The only thing holding the string taut,
The only thing keeping the arrow from its prey.

It seems like someone hit "slow"
On the VCR of time
As your arrow slices
Through the thick silence.

You hold your breath, listening
For the dull thud that means you've hit
The soft center, the vulnerable heart,
Murdered willfully once more.

The missile finds its target,
The 60th arrow,
The last of this grueling tournament,
Pierces the throbbing paper heart,
thin and white,
And makes you
A champion.