the wax man trembles. he wants to be perfect,
he says, he wants the fortune of midas, or achilles.
he says this, then, he holds his breath. for me.

there are too many syllables in his mouth.
i carve away his fingerprints, whittle at his cheeks.
i kiss his mouth chapped and gray.
there, i tell him. tie the seam at the edge of his lips.
perfection cannot exhale.

so he holds his poison back. until
it burns. until those pretty pretty eyes of his
muddy with understanding.

oh, icarus.
too late.
only diamonds are forever.

i strike a match.

and over candlelight, i say,
father, now i am an artist.
warm your hands.