Another Icarian Manic-Depressive - Johanna E. Hall

I've always compared the bright part of this illness

to Icarus—a tired metaphor that gets across 

the flying but never takes the time to explain 

the way feathers shedding look like snow. 

I burn my thumb with prayer- 

candle wax and imagine if I had to wait for gravity

to soothe my skin. The beached whale part of me

that hates the sand once used a needle and thread underwater

to sew wings to every limb in danger of 

complacency. A father named the nearest land 

after his grounded son. A little more recently, 

they named the airport there after him, too, 

honorific or mocking. I have sworn off flight 

the way your elderly neighbor promises 

she won't walk without a cane. The minute she's alone

the radio seeps through the open window. 

You pretend you don't see a dancing silhouette 

and I pretend the shadow isn't a metaphor too, 

pretend that I have never drowned. 

Daedalus also warned his son not to fly too low 

like he couldn't remember how it goes 

in this version of the story. Nothing in the middle

is worth dying for, it seems. They should have medicated Icarus.

That would show him. That would keep him at arm's length,

keep him from calling it a wingspan. I don't complain

when sand is tracked into the hallway. 

I let myself remember, get sunburnt and knee-deep.

The stitches were removed long ago.

I name the nearest sky after me, grounded.