Rhapsody of Icarus where Daedalus is an Orchardman
He believed in miracles. He
buried a mustard seed in the earth,
& watered it every morning &
night. For days. & months. &
years. & from every seed, there was
a tree. Then, a grove. Then, gravity
pulled fruits off their branches.
Then, his son, off the branch of
a healthy oak tree. The man wept.
& went, ahead & planted his body
in the earth, & watered it every
morning, & night. For days. &
months. & years. & from every loss,
there was a shadow. Then, a grave.
Then, grief. He sat under the tree,
in a vacuum filled with chord-like
sound waves which he later crafted
into a violin, lunging for hollow
ness in the wings of his songs. Because
at his feet, were elegies with broken
voices & rhythms. Their clefs, merely
hanging on like the rain in a dark cloud.
In his lungs, there was another elegy —
healthy & ready for flight. But, the
fear is this: the broken elegies were
birds, too, which had waded through
the cloud in search of him. Once
levitant. Once gutsy —like a ripe bread
fruit in its season of fall. Beloved,
hope, is like the dust rising
to
fall
again.
Darling, you’re dancing in the mist, again
Eight forty-five, again. Intermittent pulsating of
veins. Midnight silence callused into cartilage. Foot
steps across the walkway. It must be that you are
thinking aloud, again. Or it must be raining diamonds.
It’s been months since you last wrote joy on the indented
pages of your face. Last night, I dreamt of you
dancing in the mist. & where I am from, it’s a sacrilege.
But, this is how we remind ourselves of cheerfulness.
That even a tangible thing can be found at the
edge of darkness. The end of a circle is where it begins.
It’s nine pm. & you’re alone in this world, again,
trying to be happy. Happiness is a sex drive. & Damn!
I used to hate the word sex. I thought it was
a synonym for sin. Though, this isn’t part of the
poem. But, everything goes. I, you, him & him, again.
Everything goes like ten pm. The door creaks. & it’s
you at the threshold of a fresh memory. Its tongue, brown
& rusty. Your scars bright like the flashes of lightning.
A solution of salt pumping from your red heart into
your veins. That intermittent pulsating. Your eyes red &
wide open. You drag your feet across the floor. One
step after another. Darling, you’re dancing in the mist, again —
(…) wade (…)
the trees are stretching their branches
into the clouds. how we maraud our
tongues to touch survival in the tinniest
droplet of rainwater. once, lightning
kissed a boy’s lips, so that, what cascaded
from it was clean. & rhythmic. &
drinkable. under a mango tree, i sit, un-
freezing myself —trying to break through.
at the borderline, summer slept. molten
& silent. autumn leaves yellowing &
withering. a ferocious wind announcing
the harmattan. somewhere in these
moments, a mango falls from the tree &
is bruised. the elders would normally
say, it’s a bad omen. but, a still body when
displaced is a sad memory. & so is silence
when broken. i wheel my head in every
direction. peace, in the mouth of the
ocean. & i chose to dive. at least, for that
moment when your voice was thick as blood.
thick enough to sing me out of the water. there
are birds on the branches of every season.
there’s always a song that keeps the lungs
alive. the world is foreign. & the safest
place to be is inside your head. recycling
those memories into abilities. boy, to wade
in the water & not capsize.
