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“You have conquered, and I yield. Yet, henceforward art thou also dead- dead to the world and its hopes. In me didst thou exist- and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself” - Poe, from “William Wilson” Eyes shine above oak tree limb, hang thick in the light of a whole moon, fix a mark, crosshairs of a scope. Wind lifts, pushes, pulls to a net loft of swoop; claws untangle, four black reapers. Shuffle, momentary lack of silence, wet grass forest sways to the path of night-feeder whims. Full moon sees and shows: feathers hit fur, claws pierce fur, blood stained fur. The eyes again atop a throne and mark a motionless field, their reflection steadies the aim of my barrel, thirsty for a king. Eric Sribnick College of Medicine
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