by Jolene Brink
His skin was soft
so I forgave the burn.
When Icarus came to bed, hiding melted wax
between his fingers,
I asked to hear the story again.
How he became a footnote to his father’s flight.
An archetype drowning in the Aegean sea.
I always knew he wanted more. I caught him
staring out the bedroom window, watched
for the familiar bouncing in his knees.
I know it’s hard to believe
he’d repeat, but out there
I can fly.
Icarus, when you go, I remind myself
woman can be alone, has been before,
reaching for your legs beneath the covers,
finding feathers instead.