We didn’t like each other,
but Lynn’s mother had died,
and my father had died.
Lynn’s father didn’t know how to talk to her,
my mother didn’t know how to talk to me,
and Lynn and I didn’t know how to talk either.
A secret game drew us close:
we took turns being the prisoner,
who stood, hands held behind her back,
while the captor, using an imaginary bow,
shot arrow after arrow after arrow
into the prisoner’s heart.
[via American Life in Poetry]