Icarus, Oh. (Exercise hope.) (poem)

If hope is
that thing with wings
what do you call the opposite, then?
Lead shoes?
Why do I let myself miss you when you’re right here?
Push you away in my mind,
become maudlin,
withdrawn,
flying high and then swooping low in my anger,
rather than letting what I want to say
float in actual words out of my mouth.
Maybe it’s not lead shoes,
that maudlin mood.
Maybe it’s sealing wax
that describes being far too romantic,
not seeing, feeling, being, facing what’s real.
The thing with wings is,
you’ve got to beat them
and not fly too high to the sun
if they’re going to work.

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