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Daedalus Rebukes Apollo
He shapes a second set of wings for the boy
in the cool hours before dawn, working
by the light of a softening candle. His fingers
raise ridges of feathers along the harness,
reform in stone what the sun melted.
Sun-struck Icarus spirals toward Apollo.
Daedalus carves the sun. He carves the wax
firm on his own shoulders, the wings that held
him in a steady glide. He smoothes the waves
in the sea, sketches out the faintest shadow
of the boy who flies away from earth.
In the sky he cuts a single feather, falling.
He shines the marble until every detail gleams,
tosses the debris into the ocean like an offering
to the gods. The floor swept clear, every door
thrown open, Daedalus stands inside the temple
built for golden Apollo--waiting for the sun god
to open his eyes and see what he has done.
Sarah Miller
Sarah Miller moves too often for her own good, has belongings stored in
more states than she should, and has yet to see the Grand Canyon. Her poems have
appeared in Stirring, Wicked Alice, Philament, 2River, 3rd Muse, Poems
Niederngasse, Verse Libre, Bloom Review, and Imago Poetry Journal. She has
received a Pushcart nomination and was runner-up in Imago Poetry's 2004 Robert
“It takes a lot of time to be a genius,
you have to sit around so much doing nothing, really doing nothing.”
- Gertrude Stein
