by Benjamin Blackhurst
It’s about brinksmanship: one man
leaning over the edge and another
telling him to outdo Icarus, to carry
all manner of heaviness: hubcaps,
copper ingots, the beloved. To lean
into the updraft, the long oval
of the horizon. We all go mute
that high up—some from the chill;
others, awe. The breath departs.
Clean, a winged thing, towering
over the redwoods, the skyline,
it soars. You’ll never outdo it;
you’ll have to try, another says. If
you’re afraid, it’s okay. Reinforce
your wings with wax. Mend them.
Mend anything you like, really: old
knit caps, sweaters, stockings. All
the usual things. Hearts too. Hopes.
Anything not whole, waiting to be filled.
Because on the whole that’s life: waiting
to be filled, for the right wind, for people
to push you and lose their breath as you
Benjamin Blackhurst grew up in California but lives (with a pitiable zero cats) in Utah, where he is a first-year PhD student at the University of Utah.