For Father’s Day, we bring you this new poem from contributor Michael Bazzett:
The wings were indeed a cunning invention,
as most supposed but sweeping and feather-light
with a clear
understanding of lift and drag.
Daedalus knew what was up.
There would be no white legs
disappearing into green water
No, he would use woven hair
instead of wax and let
the lad get singed, if need be.
Nothing like the acrid scent
of burning hair to pull the body of a boy
back into himself.
Daedalus said the myth
would still prove useful.
A bit more laconic, perhaps. Its heavy
hands now softened inside gloves.
The two of them
long enough to sit quietly through the evenings,
looping manic over the pond
while they sipped their whiskey, without a word.