(Twenty-First Century Icarus)


The day the sky ended,
she took up her patent-leather larynx
and told me how she longed
for a recurrence of her youth and beauty
— those days before ozone age spots
and hot flashes we nicknamed global warming.

We blamed those high-velocity astronaut terrorists,
whose rocket ships feel like suicide bombers
exploding in the atmosphere's skin.

I asked the earth to stand rough like a scarecrow
against those mechanical sky-bullet birds.
I asked it to be a time machine gun
for the decay growing above me.

But the sky was an inevitable Icarus.

And as she fell,
she leapt out and devoured herself
with hot wax teeth and cripple-wing lips
— a downfall devotional of self-preservation.