Icarissa Trio
Raw poetry trials, what if the poet spectre of Margaret Atwood corrected my poem?
Icarissa / 3
The sea is dressed for ceremony.
Blue enamel.
White salty crowns.
It bares its teeth,
sparkling politely.
Men call this beauty.
They stand on decks
and name it.
But the sea keeps its own accounts.
No titles to honour.
Only her
falling.
Not the infamous brother
with wings in droplets
and the lesson, bold.
Her.
She knew the wax would fail.
Anyone who has held sunlight
in their eye or hand
knows this.
Still—
she chooses to soar.
Higher than sense
or warning.
The wings soften.
The sky loosens its grip.
Air becomes water.
Her body learns at speed
what distance cannot teach:
how heavy light is,
how close the sea waits.
And she enters it
not as punishment
but in knowledge and spite.
The waves close over.
The sky remains:
below the sun,
above her.
And the wings,
unfeathered now,
untethered
like her,
they become
something wild.
SoulStack by Beth Kempton #beyondmyself
#sussithepoet
Lovely! 💞