If you take the lips—curved to a smile—as the bow, the cooing voice as the string, and eye contact as the arrows, then you may have Cupid himself, my son. Never in my life has love struck me so deep in the chest over and over, with each look and smile—each sincere, honest smile.
Cupid
Not one great archer of ancient times—
not Arash, Arjuna, Houyi or Odysseus—
not even the ageless Titans had strength
enough to bend back and string your bow.
Yet each day with remarkable ease you
curl back the tips and notch the string.
With hardly a thought you draw back one
shaft after another, and each streak of light
finds its mark deep in the still-beating heart,
the only wound a fire of unbridled affection.
My ribs are riddled, glowing warm
with the mystery of your unassuming skill.
