As the horizon looms, flips over to present
an endless span of waves, I give up, surrender.
My fate’s the fate of falling. I guess I hoped for recognition,
that when I pushed my arms into the hostile sun
he would look up and see my face, the frame
of limb so like his lover, perhaps invoke my name.
I imagine women fainting at the thought
of this lovely form’s ravagement, the taint
of char hot enough to warp a wooden strut,
melt wax, and singe. But Daedalus flies on.
The body will soften momentarily, pliable if heavy,
finding shape hours later, so I devise my final self.
The scent surely travels downwind
in the contrail of smoke he, at least, could see.
I thought he’d catch me; if nothing else
to save the contraption with its maze
of gears and levered joints. I counted on,
I understood, he loved the thing.
—Anne M. Doe Overstreet, from Delicate Machinery Suspended
T.S. Poetry Press, 2011