each of us are grappling at one another’s arms.
stood in a crowd with one another,
in dresses, praying, singing against the other’s hair,
we claw gently and cry apologies in the blood
we give.

each of us are reaching into the sky now.
stood away now, bruises too many and wounds
many more, we let midas touch our temples
and icarus give his blessing; our forearms burst
with pinions—

each of us catch the wind and float in four directions.
wax and gold catches our light, which lays cool
against my hairs and blistering in others.
we fly gently and weep silently to the melted
who fall first.

never looking at each other again, we
try to fly until we cannot anymore.
the last bird up becomes a god
in name
but forgotten
in flight.