napowrimo #2

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Icarus Takes Off the Wings, Puts on a Skirt

You tell me I am flying too close to the sun.
I shake my feathers,
remind you
I am not flying
but fleeing
the burning house.

Embers cling to my toes,
men with rubber boots and hoses aim,
but no hero’s blast can reach me.
Someone puts out nets,

but I rise
like chimney smoke
curl
and disappear.

Even without binoculars,
flocks of displaced songbirds can be spotted
racing from forests on fire
nests left behind,
haste
and a clear pair of eyes
their only baggage.

Too late,
I realize you did not say
flying too close.

You said I am the sun.
You said Beware.

I watch wax drip from my bare shoulders,
prepare for a painful landing.

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6 responses »

  1. Pingback: expected to mourn: napowrimo 3 « carolee bennett sherwood

  2. Pingback: expected to mourn: napowrimo 3 | Albany Poets

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