The sun beats down on my neck
as I fly on artificial wings
forged by speckled feathers, held by bated breath.
My father taught me half the story.
“You will rise one day to be great”
he said in front of the fireplace,
the foyer warm, the TV low.
“Your sister can’t do anything,
your brother is lazy. It’s all up to
You.”
I was only twelve when he started his lectures.
He hasn’t stopped.
I beg him to take a breath.
I beg him to fly lower with me.
Perhaps the ocean breeze will calm his nerves?
I am not Daedalus.
I am not a master artisan.
I am not a master inventor.
An architect. An advisor. A parent.
I do not work for royalty.
My father taught me not to fly too close to the sun.
“If you continue to serve this family,” he said,
“and get a title, you can take care of us.
You can take over this family.
That is your only future. I won’t settle for less.”
I flutter to support the weight of my siblings' failures.
My mother taught me the other half.
“Worry about yourself before anyone,” she said,
elbow deep in dirty dishes.
“If you’re happy, those around
You
Will be too.”
“Do not worry about your sister--
she will mature.
Do not worry about your brother--
he just started his path.
Do what you like and success will come.
If not, your smile is enough.”
I have dumped the bodies of my siblings into the ocean
before my wings get wet and tear.
And now I can flutter
