WE found him loitering
in a bookstore, the magazine section.
The dismal hearts there didn't even realize
he was among them, armed, bow at the ready.
His quiver spilled out on the floor,
dirty, crooked, chipped arrows.
He scratched his cormorantal belly
and as he leafed
through an issue of Oui
his wings fluttered.
It was easy work
to throw him in a sack.

We drove to a trailer park
in Summit, New Jersey.
Before we released him,
we stabbed the bag
with a dozen arrows.
My sister let him out,
and when he saw her
she said his eyes
filled with tears.

The world now is treacle and venom.
We went back and told him
that we needed his magic again,
ill-aimed or not.
He had a beer can in one hand,
another around my sister's shoulder.
''I love her too much,'' he told us.
''I can't leave.
Plus, there are the children.''
This happened a few years back,
so now you understand.

Originally published in Aphros.