PARADOX
The hand that draws the bowstring has faith
that the deer will die. The longbow bends,
the arrow points, the deer stands frozen
in the curious pose of prey before its doom.
But Zeno suggests that once the arrow flies,
it covers half the distance to the deer’s heart
first, then half the distance left and half again
and again and half again so the deer will live
and the arrow will never find its one true home.
A woman’s faith is different than a man’s.
She believes his strength is bowstring straight,
his heart like longbow yew, flexible but taut.
A man believes that he is not a beast–
until the string snaps, the tortured bow splinters
and his fist is arcing through the air
toward the faithful face of the woman who believes.
The hunter doesn’t love the prey.
He’s filed the razor edge of the arrowhead himself.
And even Zeno had to eat. Is there faith enough
to believe in a universe where that fist still hangs
in the half-space in between, and now, a moment later,
half again?
(originally published by )
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