May 23, 2013
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icarus rises
in the morning,
wings furled,
footsteps soft
on the hot concrete.

arms folded neatly,
i watch him
from behind the window.
he is weightless, almost airborne
as he scales our fences with
easy grace.
he laughs,
leaps higher still,
and my fingernails carve raw
red crescents into my skin
as i wonder if he will

i want him to turn,
eyes seeking mine,
as i reach my hand out
to touch the cool glass,
silently pulling him back
behind these stubborn walls.
i want to remind him
that he is fragile—
that gravity never forgets
the times his back has curled in
the days he crawled back to the safety
of closed doors—
but i don’t.
far ahead of me,
icarus laughs, eyes closed
against the wind and
he jumps.

i watch him fall—
arms thrown out,
wings finally catching air,
and this time I know
he isn’t turning back.
his hair is braided with feathers
(the spare traces of flight)
and i swear to any god that is listening
that this boy will never land.
he will leave me far behind,
still laughing, wind carrying him
hundreds of miles away
and i will never call him back

i will never say a word;
i am wingless,
sea water running through my veins,
my bones too heavy
for the air to carry.
i have a heartbeat that stutters
like wing strokes,
and all the gravity that icarus
has never needed.

i will never say a word.
because after all
who am i
to chain him?

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