I will grab
from the air
the arrows aimed at my breast
and plant them.
I will make them into
a thicket of birches, where blackbirds nest
and foxes have their lair.

I will gather the poison
from the arrow tips
into a small phial of blue ancient glass,
and turn it into a love potion
stronger than Aphrodite's kiss,
and hand it to the merchants of love
in the old marketplace.

I will inscribe transformed
the barbed words, on tablets so old,
when found
they will become the Law
of whole new nations.

I will harness my wrath
to drive me and mine
through your valley of death
to my promised land
where milk and honey flow.