The Stag and the Quiver
1
Once there was a deer called stag. A white breasted,
a many pointed. He refused to still when he halted,
the hooves in his mind were always lifted.
Everything comes close, the branches slide. In a
clearing made of cleavings, stag sees another stag.
They watch each other, they share no story. I will
not cross you and you must move on. There is nothing
else. It reminds me of some tale, stay with me to
remember, it reminds me of where I was going
without you.
2
The hunter sinks his arrows into the trees and then
paints the targets around them. The trees imagine
they are deer. The deer imagine they are safe. The
arrows: they have no imagination.
All night the wind blows through the trees. It makes
a sound.
The hunter’s son watches the hunter. The hunter
paints more rings on his glasses. Everything is a
target, says the hunter. No matter where you look.
The hunter’s son says nothing, and closes his eyes.
3
The hunter’s son watches the stag.
Clench is a hand word. His hand is clenched. Door
with a bad hinge, it wouldn’t open. Do not let go of
the arrow, let it slip through your fingers as you relax
your grip. This is good advice. He couldn’t do it.
There is no way to get to the future from here.
The key to archery is sustained attention. An arrow
is a stick with feathers, an extension of the mind.
Men and their thoughts, their quivers and their
arrows: it helps to see how these things move, and
where they land.
The stag watches the hunter’s son.
4
This is a story of loops, at least one. I stepped off the
loop. I spent time listening, testing realms. I
snapped a twig in my head and struck out. You
know what it’s like to be alone: gimlets and
vermicide. You know what it’s like to be alive, so
forgiveness.
All night the trees stand silent in the dark, not
touching.
I put on the deer suit. I turned my ears in all
directions. I’ll live alone or in between. This is the
testimony of the deer: solitude, the long corridors,
love from a distance. You asked me once, What are
we made of? Well, these are the things we’re made
of. One house, two house. The road goes away from
here.
by Richard Siken