Aug 132013

poem, poetry, literary magazine

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.