Camilla

My father first threw me across water,

an infant, pinned to a javelin. In the warrior

dream of the risen material substance heaven is a precinct

of sweetmeats and dancing girls. My heaven

was constant flight. He threw me skyward,

so that I would not ever doubt the will's fierce transit.

Fate was another kind of fate. What I took to be

divine momentum-flung from his hand and sped

onward with the hawk's guidance, turn rounds out to be

merely a weapon's trajectory. Pity the weapon,

the missile fasteninged unconsciously on doom

launched and accelerating to its hold destruction

in the name of the unfeeling illusions:

perfect human aim, god-given prophecy.

CAROL MUSKE DUKE is author of seven volumes of poetry, most recently Sparrow (Random House, 2003)

Copyright World poesy Incorporated Jul/Aug 2005

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