“Icarus is not for us.
He flies and falls, that’s all. He doesn’t joke
to hide his fear, or seem ashamed…
He’s young and proud. He likes the sound
of his own voice. Of course the world must break
and scatter him among the falling birds.
It’s never him. His father, Daedalus—
he’s our muse, bent to an unforgiving craft
in someone else’s labyrinth, the dark
exile in which he sets himself to work:
letting the candles gutter so the wax
spills, seals vane and down at quill and shaft,
working longer into the thankless night…”
Read the rest of the poem at Threepenny Review.
”what table set of your bone
what silver what flesh
dream of your throat
what melting what flavor
cumin currant coconut
your clavicle mantle for my mandible
what wishbone split cracked and tasted
rooms and rooms of your marrow…”
Read the rest of the poem at Washington Square Review.