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.