I'm committed to getting my poems into the public domain, but I'm at
the moment also pursuing publications in literary journals-- to help
the poems find a particular audience-- and they are usually
old-fashioned about this sort of thing.  A poem on ZEST poets counts
as publication and most of them only take unpublished work.  So I want
to try posting poems a little while after they come into print.

This poem appeared two years ago in Fulcrum 2.

--Cheers, Vivek


ARROW

We have left the company compound, its fence
of bound yellowed grass swaying on stilts.  Mrs. Young,
the manager's wife, is inside with her phonograph
for comfort and my mother, in the kitchen, turned to
another unpeopled day.  Near naked,
hairs curled, I'm the villager's favourite.  A man
takes my hand and laughs: I take in his rows
of perfect teeth, red eyes, uncombed hair.
He takes my hand: look, something over there.

Light broke the canopy of leaves.  The arrow
was a straight twig rare among the trees.  Laughing,
he shaved it with a knife large
for the purpose, wrists alert, whole seam
of his arm to the handle, until it was stripped white
and sharpened on one end.  Laughing,
he cut a groove into the other, still blunt side.

So tell, who is this man who takes my hand
or draws the loaded bowstring back, who leans
against his scissored leg to let the arrow flow?  Reader,
he's lost to history, as are the sparse and scrubby woods.
What's left is the arrow in its unrecorded flight
lodged before it has left his hand
in the blister bark of that tree and, when you pull away,
a small and perfect pink oval.  Why does it stay,
the smallest thing, that near-human pink splayed
like surgery in that black and tan bark? Like the scene
of an unsolved crime, sticking regardless to me,
waking in this empty room,
the sunlight through burglar bars,
the linoleum's interlocking design.

--Vivek Narayanan


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