IMAGE DESCRIPTION

through font shading, this poem’s text paints the fall of icarus. black text forms the silhouette body of the young, wingless angel falling headfirst into grey waters against a paler, misty sky. the final line of the poem dissolves into air.

TRANSCRIPT

sweet father-made angel, when you fell from the sun, did you know
these demons called men would nail a moral legacy against
arrogance to your death? tell the world your life only through how
it ended—only to ward other boys off soaring their dreams too
high. i’ve seen them rob your corpse from its wet grave. resurrect
your bones only heard through a millenia-long game of telephone.
your zombie an idom: do not be an icarus…he flew too close to
the sun. look how we hold history even when he be harmful. how we
repeat him into memory, change his name to trauma then call that
a day. then call those days a week until they make years. these
subconscious conversions wreak silences in the lifeline of our night.
they knew not how you flew, inhaling the air no one touches,
everything but over-ambitious, you humble twink relishing the
delight of birds: the sky. you heard your dad, didn’t you? what he
said about the wax, the sun, the wings clinging back to you for
flight. tell me your secret is you didn’t care. you fended off
death in that prison-cell minos called a “workshop”—an
eleven-year-old sentenced in until an adult ascended out—and as
soon as you were free, you said fuck the ground, all i want is cloud.
tell me it was no accident. tell me you knew all along & you
reached for the heavens because you were happy. because the warm
kiss of apollo’s carriage, how zephyros’ wind whistled your body &
your proximity to the stars and our gods tasted like the nectar i
hope to sing some day too. tell me it was a celebration, not
stupidity, nor a suicide. tell me you did it for you so maybe i