poem – Adam Brooks Webber

Arrow Prayer

Arrow Prayer

With my eyes fixed on the finish line
	I crouch in the starting blocks.
I breathe deeply once, then wind
	the inner spring tightly.
I flex and relax in quick restless ripples.
I am an arrow, I tell myself.
My bow is drawn.

Dear Archer,
	point me where you will.
I will give myself to the arc you choose for me.
I will not worry about the trajectory.
I will fly from you,
	not needing to know.
I will be the best, the fastest, the smoothest,
	the willingest arrow.

Just one thing, please:
	Talk to me, Archer.
	Fletcher, talk to me.
Let me know that I cannot leave you really.

I will fly from you, and to you.
You will choose my trajectory, and be my trajectory.
Let's go, Master.
I'm ready.

On your mark.
Get set.

Vital Statistics

Vital Statistics

At the intersection of two country roads
     a yellow light flashes slowly.
I pull over—
     unnecessarily—
     hours pass here, this late at night,
     with no car from any direction.
The light flashes, once every two seconds,
     and it clicks as it flashes.
The corn rustles in the four fields.
Insects chirp.
The moon climbs a little higher in the sky.

Once every two seconds—
     somewhere in the world—
     a child dies of hunger.
No fields of corn are there,
     no intersections of highways,
     not even a flashing of light to announce the death.
Sometimes there is a weeping and a loud lamentation.
Sometimes, every two seconds,
     no one marks the death at all.

Except you, O Lord.
I believe:
     no light passes unnamed, unmourned.
Even when our intersection seems empty all night,
     still you are there.

May I sit just this one hour with you?
For this hour, as the corn rustles and the insects chirp,
     I will pray with you for each light as it flashes and is gone.
Every two seconds.
Every two seconds.