Anchor Point
BY LAURA JOYCE-HUBBARD
The archery range south
of the marina butts up
against Lake Michigan
on the Naval Station.
We like to think of it
as ours. Only twice have we
seen anyone. Once, a petty
officer on a smoke break.
Once, new enlistees
with six packs. I bring
my son to teach him breath,
aim point, to hold the bow
in tension. He climbs
the wooden stanchion,
to the shooting stand.
I hand him the hickory bow.
He pulls the recurve
on his inhale, steadies his
sights with his left hand,
rests the anchor point,
pressed on his full cheek.
He releases the arrow
with breath held still.
The target: a plastic flap
of circles. Baby blue, Nantucket
red, and bullseye yellow,
already chewed with punctures
of other archers.
He squints with one eye.
The arrow
flies. Thump.
He is good at this,
so I move him back
from the target. We share
an axis and a quiver.
