The Arrowhead
June 19, 2008
He takes blind swings, a glove to the face,
the voice clenched in the curl of a fist,
all the things that words can’t say. Skipping
to that embrace, he ducks and dances
knowing the ring can be a lonely place,
its table edges stretching out for white miles.
The tattoos on his schoolboy arm in blue
and red, a black arrow, the head pointing down,
how a lightning strike might, towards the earth.
All this will fade, a flags waving blur, even
the rope he falls against, to be alive
and know only this: the arrowhead.
Copyright Naomi Woddis 2008
