ICARUS' FATHER BUILDS THE WINGS
Collecting feathers in the yard,
he tells himself each soft bird body is only a harvest,
a sprawl. He trims feather from soft wing,
down from skin. His hands shake.
He saws branches from trees, snaps them,
convinces himself they will not be missed.
In his eyes, they are not limbs.
He takes them to the kitchen, melts candles,
smooths feathers over them. Outside, a sunny sky hides
a storm. A bird sprawls downwards,
searches for its nest, finds air.