My father first threw me across water,
an infant, pinned to a javelin. In the warrior
dream of the risen body, heaven is a precinct
of sweetmeats and dancing girls. My heaven
was constant flight. He threw me skyward,
so that I would never 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, turns out to be
merely a weapon’s trajectory. Pity the weapon,
the missle locked unconsciously on doom—
launched and accelerating to its own destruction
in the name of the cruel illusions:
perfect human aim, god-given prophecy.