The Death of Icarus;
or, the Specter and the Maiden
And here it continues, the boy’s corpse
folded in sea foam, parts of the remaining wing-
structure bobbing among the loose feathers.
Marina we find attached to a ship’s prow
in the harbor where it occurred.
Marina, a mermaid. Her carven forehead shines
above the right palm turned perpendicular to the eyebrow ridge,
where the carver said, let be. The eyes are just beneath,
the two witnesses, always open,
and one must imagine that she is tired.
Marina we find one must imagine she longs for breath,
to breathe deep and to cry
(in a voice that would be, by now, salty, and driven as sand)
Painter, come down, rescue the subject beneath this layer.
Show me your first version.
Marina we find attached to a ship’s prow
in the harbor where it occurred,
forehead singed with the memory,
burned by the falling, the screaming flame at the top.
And yet we admire the asymmetry
that allows her left hand to dangle
just above the waterline,
teasing the unknown quantities of spume,
the swanlike undulance of her neck and the exposed breasts.
And here it fell.
And yet there are rakelike indentions
above the breastbone, where a strap or hand lay,
a grasp was let go. And yet Marina was hung,
making her escape. And yet the carver knew
the painter knew and the boy’s father knew.
And yet the whole town watching, gaining,
and yet no perspective on the events.
Marina says the boy says Peel me a grape, taste ashes, fuel spit.
We all fall.