By Nola Killpack
The sky must end somewhere
and there I would be trapped,
so I mold myself wings
of feathers and hardened wax.
Of my fate, I lie, unaware,
this journey, thought abstract.
But left unsponsored by each king,
I slip on flight and watch my feet retract.
Here dwells I, an undiscovered wilderness,
and I manufacture rainbows (sun glorified by tears)
but the sky is glass blown by wind and lava
and I could touch it in these wings I wear.
So I fly higher. When my back drips, bloodless,
beneath my fist, sky fractures into cerulean spears
and through the gash oozes space. I become a killer,
pirate ships crushed beneath stars, humanity a shifting powder,
but no, my fist too weak, my wings too waxen,
my knuckles land with a hollow sound
and I am the only one found bleeding, broken
no oak and velvet, but a shroud of clouds.