There was never a stag, but I must have killed something—

when I lay that javelin in the grass, it reappears in my hand.

When I cast it to the ocean, I find it tucked into my first bed.

Fire does not burn it. The wood can never crack.

It’s difficult to cook dinner with a javelin in my hand.

It’s difficult to do anything at all. Sometimes I want

to become a cypress tree—turn my thoughts into little twigs,

my intentions to heartwood. Rid myself of movement.

But I am not my own god. Apollo, if you transform me, I’ll adorn

your heavenly yard. But if you adore me, refuse.

Because if I adored me, I’d see there was never a javelin.

And let the whole world be a stag.