every icarus

& the joke of it is
the sun is just a basement dart board.
this is a story about
who is a father & who gets
to be fathered. i worked
for hours in my bedroom
trying to build a pair
of working wings. i spit 
on my hands. i prayed
with saint cards. i sewed
stray pigeon feathers 
to form garlands. wrapping myself
like roadkill. all the while
my father stood in the doorway.
he took a steak knife
& carved "ungrateful"
into the wall or was that
my thigh? a thigh & a wall
are similar just like
an ocean & a driveway are similar
& a fall & kneeling.
i always knew i was going to
plummet. this is what happens
when you try to put masculinity 
in between your teeth.
i screamed, "mine mine mine"
as if i could wrench it 
from my father's throat.
he is the axe by the door. 
he is why birds die suddenly 
mid-flight. i am not a bird though.
i am a cherry tree or a loose veil cloud
or a boy just like every other boy
who lives inside a stained glass house.