Icarus calls to say he wants his wings back. 

​

You skin them into an offering, depositing them 

​

on his stoop like a hunter bearing 

​

its prey. You had no use for them anyway, those pretty man-made

 

flights. Icarus lets the gap close like a shut 

 

eyelid, and you are all too keen on his lips. No, 

​

that isn’t right. 

​

Not 

​

everything is 

​

a story. 

​

You thieve gravity and anything that can be consumed: 

 

messages. Past lives. Backfire 

​

singing make-believe on shoulder 

​

blades. Icarus was always bird-boned, still 

​

born in mid-flight. 

​

In this story, he pops out a wound, 

​

already waxed and feather-slick. 

​

All the bodies you count 

​

are his. So forgive yourself 

​

if you cleave Icarus’s wings 

​

and leave behind the polished bone. You fly

​

like this: calling out with smiles trailing teeth. And Icarus marries

 

you to gravity—no, that isn’t 

​

right. 

​

This 

​

is not 

​

a story is not 

​

belonging? 

​

Even offerings do not ask 

​

to be returned.