As a boy, I longed to be Icarus
They say he takes risks,
but he was raised in the leaves
of books. Their words slip off of him;
of course their ink is oil-based.
With wax and leaves fixed
fast to the small of his back,
he leaps and swings his waist. He flaps
his arms, he kicks his toes
and with the grace of a bad waltz,
flies (falls) from the yard.
But wish him good luck as he strides off—
The gods’ luck if he will have it.
Not their wrath, please (he is just a boy).
This time, he leaves the ground and
glides through harm’s way,
so high that trucks look like ants down there;
but it is strange how they
grow towards the end of his flight,
‘til they are life-sized,
and try as he might, he can’t stay in the sky.
The dirt in his mouth tastes like a sign
to strive for the stars once more.
He walks home, bronze and green
grass stains on his jeans
and white wings on each
of his arms (to tare the weight of the
fiend in his mind).
They say he takes
risks, but each day is a chance to free fall,
and in falling, find fantasy.