I, Icarus

The first time I 

tried to be Icarus, I 

had to be about 7 years old, I 

fed on residue broth and bone; I 

lived like an urban Rapunzel. 

Grey mortar to the maroon brick, I 

was built still in a burrowed city, and I

was framed by my window, 

with fire escape stairs built like a church fence. 

Cinderella child, I 

wore thrift store threads and I 

bore tar and feathers. I 

used to watch the outdoor news, felt I was

entrapped by the weather. 

Feeling stalked by their silhouettes, I would

wake amidst the smoke of my parent’s

menthol cigarettes. 

Mother; I 

watch as she snow-white danced 

on fragile tables. 

She could hardly stand, 

snorting clouded fables. 

Father; I 

asked for a sip of his tonic and, 

with clutched cross metal in his hand, he

prayed to Saint Lazarus and 

told me how he was once Hercules but was

made to beg by a 3 headed beast; these inner

voices he picked up from the streets. 

One day, I 

felt, from the middle level up, 

a heat arise from my mother’s powder dish

and my father’s empty cup. 

Mother had burnt candles on both ends

with the same lighter 

that lit the addict fuse,

the flame of which combusted with

my father’s loose use of booze. 

Betting my chance as an act of fate, I

realized that I 

fit through the window frame. I

jumped onto the fire escape and I

climbed to a Rapunzel peak as I

snow-white danced on the steel sheets. I

tore my old, hand-me-down clothes.

Now exposed, I 

oversaw the inner-city streets and I

heard Father’s voices call up to me. 

Losing balance, I 

try to correct my steps but I 

overtake my own feet; I

start to feel the sun’s heat; I see

the feathers fall away; I miss

my mother; I 

need my father; I 

no longer wish to be here as I 

am afraid as I

begin to fade; now I, 

feel a generational weight and

I, Icarus.