Icarus. (For my mother)

The story continues, as sore as skin rubbed
dangerously red, it’s colour like fire from the raw, intimate
mistreating
essence of each anxious fingernail.
I worry so much, about such similar failure.

Of taking a flight path which tip toes a degree
closer to the sun that it burns, melts and defrocks me from
everything I have worked painstakingly towards.
.
That I destruct in the opposite way I was destroyed.

But than
I think of my mother,
who gifted me these lungs and the simple ability to use them.
My mother, who presented this bag of bones
and ceaseless emotions a name;
T’was the first act of god hood she gave me.

Suddenly, Icarus is no more. See
her words are expressive, like blue bells slow dancing in a forest
eroding in mist, summer time-
never winter,
the sun doesn’t cease to shine liquid light further through
us like syllables shooting from gunfire tongues,
shivering down fragile bones
singing:
oh holy prayer.
My mother is my mother;
Her smile simple and loving as cushioned arms are open,
ready to catch each angel as they fall.
With eyes angered, disrupting each demon as they beckon forward,
they march onwards, with quiet war cries like acid to my ears.
Reminders of promises my hearts regretted;
Reminders of places, that still hold so much
of me.

I think of how I am born with only a fraction of her strength,
How a fraction is solely enough to make it through.

Of how I long to be, entirely whatever it is she dreamt for me.
Thanks to the single women who
created me, I have perseverance knocked recklessly into my own bone
marrow, with the ability to love, endlessly
Like an everlasting river ebbs and flows.

I have swallowed an entire thunder storm raging
in colours of grey and black, charcoal avalanches
encroaching treacherously, plummeting though all of my downhill slopes.
But thanks to my mother,
there is no danger to fear.
No monster who has the permission
to steal so much away from me.
Thanks to My Mother
I shall never fly too far that I drown nor
fly too high: kissing flames yearning
like a moth to the light, with little care
in such a
rational burn.

Because she taught us beauty in rhythms, in being
knives who as they cut
we sharpen.
She taught us to fly fall burn and blaze
but to keep on going despite of it.
My mother;
the person whose gunfire tongue
makes gods look away;
as we escape the death that took one of their
own so completely, that we forget their name as they

tumble.