Shaking, shuddering, skyward

I crash as if I, alone,

can break this glass haze

with the fire sloshing in my belly.

Every movement, I feel—

 

my breath— 

arch into the greed of those astronauts, high

on my fumes—guzzled and smuggled 

through my hissing steel veins to fuel

our shared madness; I see the stars have spilled

into their open pores and I know they too must

feel the same calling 

elsewhere—anywhere just past this pane.

 

Higher, higher, we—no, no, I—set all of myself

alight until I too am a star, clawing towards my

rightful place etched into this galaxy.

But I am no star.

I am ashes, shadowy whispers of possibility—

I hang on my choking smoke. 

 

Briefly, I am swinging, weightless in air, and I wonder

is this how Icarus felt when he thought the sky

was his to conquer? When did he feel the Sun’s ringing 

warmth leaking from his fingertips, a rusted offering

of ichor dripping to the domain of the Gods, far,

far below?  Did he fear whatever awaited him down there?

 

Falling, I crash into cold and see misty wings 

explode outwards. They follow me, fluttering

mockingly on my back as the scent

of salt yanks me into reality. Far above, I watch

as the astronauts embrace 

the blinding void and I know that I am now as Icarus,

hopelessly watching vultures rise above our folly.