ICARUS AND THE LAND OF DAWN
Silent milk:
There is nothing for you here anymore
Not even sleep
Black and seamless
In this body carved from the night cliff
And the numb dumb boredom
Of a kingdom
Without yellow rooms
Where food and ships
Wings or dreams
Cannot proceed to grow
Withering biblically instead,
No cup of coffee murmuring
Pour milk into me
At dawn, no shiny newborn thing
Seeking your
Anchorage. No
Perfection in this moment
Where Roger isn’t in his court
Rolling the ball like trains. I can
Unfurl migraines across a terra
Cotta floor is
All I’ve achieved and of course
In winter, everything
Distills
And the spaces between
Crack, shadows
Slip and fall. Men are
Drinking bulletproof rum to
Forget things and a
Child the milk might
Remember, the child you
Witnessed assembled
By factories writhing and thrashing
On a bed in the middle of
Many nights
Grew up and left
For a place faraway and
Returns now as Icarus
To the land of dawn
Only because he must
Drop old wounds.
SCARECROW
Unlike you,
I didn’t do the ruins well. I couldn’t be
gestated outside the womb.
I couldn’t thrive in theaters
of winter shredded into
snow. I could
never survive on what was left
gripping onto that
anchor of hipbones.
Call me coward—
ineffectual, stilled as dirty sheep in rain
even if
I’d be all that remains
after dingoes have eaten up Australia,
the wheat felled to its knees
in vast flaxen fields.
I am not Roger and the mountain
bearing him bejeweled
children.
I haven’t been fueled
by any of the white lights—by stars or
clarity, by saints or
sperm or fireflies or
a comet flaring across
nations. Without inspiration, without
motivation
one’s powered only by
echoes in which
the fruit that failure
drops is
a gray bird flying on
the edge of
edible dreams. I remember
half-finished cups of coffee
and waiting and waiting
and the
fever burning and burning,
erupting no new idols.
There were
failed loves, failed friendships,
failed quests,
failed visions and trying to
run away from the memories
people still hold of me.
I am touring the contours of shame.
I am carved into halls.
But I can’t cry now.
Your poems are as intense as they were during gss, Garki days. Still searching for my good friend-lateefah
Hi Francis: I’ve just read Icarus and the Land of Dawn. You use words so well -so moving. I can just visualize you reading this beautiful poem. Please give us more! Thanks, Terry.