Portrait of My Father as Icarus

by LUCIEN MEADOWS

My father climbs high branches above me
While on the grass, I hold sycamore leaves

To my face—I am a caterpillar
Burrowing tiny-eyed into a wall

Of green. I face the sun, one leaf over
My eyes revealing veins, and closer, skin

Patched like quilts. Skin into cell, and I see
Small boats of light canaling into leaf

Interrupted with a shout—my father
Falling from clouds like a god, knotted ropes

His slippery wings. Arms outstretched, his eyes
Open and silent as I run to him,

Smell mint and butter of sky in his hair.
Until he moves, we stay awhile like this.