I.
Icarus cries, a Boy stained with
saltwater and
swollen hurricanes.
He is a pitiful godchild
with nothing but wax and honey in His teeth.
His golden wing drips,
as the blistering Aegean sun has dyed the seas
shimmering shades of gold and copper and iron:
like rosy fingers of burnish light.
II.
He is the last of His kind.
There are no idyllic Icaruses, nor magi gifting gold, nor conquering Caesars,
as there once was.
Their glory is shed, leaving nothing but rippling, pansy-like waves to swallow crumbling cities.
A gust blows out a candles’ stricken wick.
III.
Homer laughs at Icarus’ plight,
for He is indeed a Fool,
speaking in blue adjectives:
Kuáneos: a glossy dark shade of blue with its black hues,
reminiscent of Zeus’ eyebrows and the night,
glittering like wine in a terracotta vessel.
-and glaukós: a crude, blue-grey ocean lapping at your ship.
Homeric wine whispers of the brooding sea mélas:
of haunted spirits, hysterical anger, indigo nights.
Euthrós, the tawny-red gleams of the sea at sunset;
and áthops, bright salt seas
that smell of white smoke in the glancing firelight.
IV.
Yet even Ignorant Homer couldn’t describe
how beautiful it is,
from so high above.
Icarus smiles,
as lonely shorelines roar,
sputtering foam
and sobbing to Icarus,
begging for him to stay
at their ebbing Fingertips
within the gray wine-faced waves,
as a tempestuous drunken mist covers the seas,
darkly troubled
with silver-pewter shards.
V.
Good night, good night, good night,
weeps Icarus,
Hands outstretched
towards the drowning sea,
as He falls from a leaden sky.
