Might night right sight?
—Andrew Joron
The first thing she did after we blindfolded her
and turned her in circles by her shoulders
was lunge
for where she thought her target hung
and hit tree trunk instead, with one strike
against it split the stick
in half to jagged dagger
in her
fists. The donkey gently swayed
within reach, barely grazed
and staring straight ahead with the conviction
inherent to its kind at the horizon
that a gaze
implies,
paper mane fluttering in the breeze of a near miss,
belly ballasted with melting chocolate kisses,
drawn grin belying its
thingness, rictus
of ritual and craft. She's grinning
too, and laughing, regaining
her balance,
planting her feet in a samurai stance.
She brandishes her splinter.
There's no harm in letting her
take another turn
without turning
her around again.
We think we know how this ends,
how good it feels to play at this,
violence and darkness,
the beast
that harbors something sweet.
