Written by Marielle Glasse.
Graphic by Emma Robinson.
In the body of an arrow is a man.
He lays down with his arms to his sides, like a board in the desert. His stomach is carved out all the way to his feet. This eternal hunger that rules him is an arrow too. A hollow grinds in him like sandpaper. Eating Eating. If you were to hold him, he would break. If you were to whisper incantations above his form, he might blow away. He is made of fragile earth. Cracking and crumbling, like the crust of gingerbread cookies. Could you tell by the shape of his head where he came from? What language he might have spoken? Could you tell by the width of his shoulders if he worked the lands or the Banks. Could you repeat to me the name of his mother and the storm of his father’s voice? In the body of a man there is an arrow.
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