Another Icarian Manic-Depressive - Johanna E. Hall

I've always compared the bright part of this illness
to Icarus— a tired metaphor that gets across
the flying but never takes the time to explain
the way feathers shedding look like snow.
I burn my thumb with prayer-
candle wax and imagine if I had to wait for gravity
to soothe my skin. The beached whale part of me
that hates the sand once used a needle and thread underwater
to sew wings to every limb in danger of 
complacency. A father named the nearest land 
after his grounded son. A little more recently, 
they named the airport there after him, too, 
honorific or mocking. I have sworn off flight 
the way your elderly neighbor promises 
she won't walk without a cane. The minute she's alone
the radio seeps through the open window. 
You pretend you don't see a dancing silhouette 
and I pretend the shadow isn't a metaphor too, 
pretend that I have never drowned. 
Daedalus also warned his son not to fly too low 
like he couldn't remember how it goes
in this version of the story. Nothing in the middle
is worth dying for, it seems. They should have medicated Icarus.
That would show him. That would keep him at arm's length,
keep him from calling it a wingspan. I don't complain
when sand is tracked into the hallway. 
I let myself remember, get sunburnt and knee-deep.
The stitches were removed long ago.
I name the nearest sky after me, grounded.