Tanya Larkin

Diana of the Selves

Once we used prayer to build up the body
and fatten it through the night. Dirt
was the trophy against the ankle hollow
or crammed into the knuckle crease —
the distance we had traveled to a more
dizzying height. There the wind keened
out of hunger and put its snout to the road.
We looked back and saw our younger
selves trying to keep up, whipped almost
to transparency. But I was quickest
to my quiver. My arrow was out. I learn
more from missing — when I miss.

© 2005 Electronic Poetry Review