James Callan

Toxophilite

The bowman’s shot is true
though his intentions might be false
Robin hoodwinked me out of my trousers
painting a bullseye between my babycakes
At 180 lbf, he plucks his string assiduously
plucking my heartstrings, ass hideously
a target puckered in concentric rings
G.string twang
flying in a gentle arc
pitilessly splitting my arrow.

The bowman’s shot is deft
like Eros, unerring
he aims with the fidelity of a surgeon
Open-heart incision
slaughter of the senses
bypassing dinner, the drinks
the dancing and the heavy petting
Folds of denim pooling at my feet
kicking knickers straight to the heart
Cupid claiming my soul.

The bowman’s shot is swift
swift as an arrow
swift as a fox
swift like the fox named Swift in David the Gnome
Swift as the wind
blowing on my ear
The thrust of the fletcher
hard against the bowyer’s back
notched and tightly strung
recurved and resplendent.

The bowman’s shot is fatal
and it’s just my fate
a fatal attraction
Love is a fate worse than death
love is eternal, they say
they say to him “You wrecked him”
Wait, did you say rectum?
Brown eye bullseye
sliding into French third base
The bowman’s made his mark.