(The Icarus Child)
When you were young you were a tree beast
with arms like rattle snakes that would fall down to your feet
And with forks for fangs you would toss and turn
unsure of what your body was for
And in your room you would lay and writhe
trying to see how close to yourself you could be
But then came the afternoon I knew I would love you
your fists like leather eggs in the sunshine
as you held them up while you danced
when no one knew why
And now he asks me
"do you remember when you saw her last?"
And I said:
She was an Indian!
Her forearms had suntans when she
was delirious and built towers so
she could climb the sky
and tumble down a chicken wire slide!
And now I thumb through photographs and know them all
but can't remember where I left her
just the gondola that used to carry her
until I grew my new hands which carried me here
but didn't have palms enough for her
Now I miss when she would run down hills
convinced if she was fast enough she would fly
And the day she did I was there
back in the days when we shared the same eyes
and her hands cut through the air so fast
they turned into helicopters fastened to her wrists
to carry her up like Icarus
so she could kiss the sky.