Born to Fly

You made your wings with gold
and mine with silver, crafted, woven
under moonlight so the wax wouldn’t melt.

I was sold.

But it was the water
that caught us when we fell,
not you, who gave me a hand
to hold, told me our divinity,

then dropped me.

I was a soldier in a trench, my eye
trained on the sacred deer
when you caught it, dazzled it
with gold and silver, stopped me.

I put my bow and arrow down.

My heart was bound, my chest aflutter,
you told me we were born to fly
away from this deep world of man.
This world of stone and water

didn’t matter, was beneath us.

We were gods. We were birds.
We were sirens soaring coolly
dashing darkness with creation,
shocking songs out of the mountains

as we fell.

I don’t blame you for the fall,
like I don’t blame the sun for burning
skin and eyes, blinding us both.
I don’t blame the sea for catching us,
half-drowning us,

but I blame you for letting go.

And though you cradle my empty head
with scalded hands that handled
gold and silver, the black behind
the bandage is heavier.

Because for a minute we were falling,
but for a second we were falling apart.
You, golden, above.
Me, in your shadow.

I am glad now that I can’t see.
My skin is ash, while yours is melting.
Gold and silver splinters, Midas’ truth
seeping curses into hair and nail and tooth.

You were golden, born to fly.

I was made of silver and wax
to lay heavy in your lap
as you wept apologies.