I.
his father told him
the wings were wax;
strain, stretch, and tremble,
but he'd never reach the sun.
his father was a sculptor:
innovative, wise
he did nothing incautious.
deliberate and cool,
labyrinth-methodical. the
wings were wax.
he wept between the copses of
new-trimmed poplar
the sun came up behind the trees
the sounds
of the workshop came over the hills
and woke the olives. the
wings were wax.
a night and a day. he strapped
them on,
corpse-cool against his sunburnt back.
they ran and scalded before he
fell;
molten, misshaped, seared sky
and skin
he didn't notice, fists tight,
breath thin
waiting teeth-gritted for the fall.
his eyes were on the sun.
II.
eyes on the sun
and sea, he waits.
you take his chair out to the
pier
at dawn, and wheel it back at
dusk.
the instruments are shown:
sextant,
tide-clock, glass. birds peck
at withered feet for crumbs.
you shoo them off. you didn't
once.
they bit his ankles blood and
raw.
you sponged them clean with
vinegared wine;
he tossed and cried, and cursed and cried.
"I should have gone with," he
sobs and shakes
when the navigation-stars come out.
"the dark, broad seas. life to
the lees.
some work of noble note may yet
be done-"
he was years from home. you
wash his face.
you spoon his dinner with
wrinkled hands
that weave no more, that pain and shake.
"I should have gone to seek-"
he cries.
the lights begin to twinkle
from the rocks.
the long day wanes: the slow
moon climbs.
"no," you say, like every night
weeping words that taste of
vinegared wine.
though much is taken, much
abides.
"no." you press him to your
chest.
the sea is close. it tastes
you both.
you whisper. "stay. live.
stay."
III.
"stay. live. stay," they
said.
their voices touched your skin
like thirst.
the men fled below; the sheep
bawled
until you cut its throat; the
blood
flowed down into the river.
you were misled. they knew no
futures;
nothing mortal man did not.
"there is no
wisdom in death," they said.
the blood ran red as
pomegranate seeds.
the sheep drooped under your
sea-strong arm.
its last breath was weak; it
sounded like weeping.
"hoist sail," called the
captain.
water ate his words.
"not yet. not yet," they
whispered thick
in voices of wool and wear and time.
"converse. bear witness. stay
a while."
they looked like your mother.
they looked
like your lovers, aged and bent slow under
years of
toil. their hands were your hands.
you could not refuse.
you fasted that night, and lit
no torch.
the waves sounded soft against
the hull.
you lay with your back against
the boards
they whispered: their names.
you did not speak.
you told your wife these
tidings later
as they commanded, begged,
beseeched;
"you have learned something of
death," she said,
her hand in yours, her lips on yours,
her
sweat sweet-drying on the sheets.
"nothing," you said.
"nothing."
a sheep wept in your dreams
that night.
and you could not see the
stars.
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