POETRY

DIAL TONE

Icarus calls to say he wants his wings back. 

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You skin them into an offering, depositing them 

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on his stoop like a hunter bearing 

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its prey. You had no use for them anyway, those pretty man-made

flights. Icarus lets the gap close like a shut 

eyelid, and you are all too keen on his lips. No, 

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that isn’t right. 

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Not 

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everything is 

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a story. 

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You thieve gravity and anything that can be consumed: 

messages. Past lives. Backfire 

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singing make-believe on shoulder 

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blades. Icarus was always bird-boned, still 

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born in mid-flight. 

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In this story, he pops out a wound, 

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already waxed and feather-slick. 

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All the bodies you count 

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are his. So forgive yourself 

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if you cleave Icarus’s wings 

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and leave behind the polished bone. You fly

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like this: calling out with smiles trailing teeth. And Icarus marries

you to gravity—no, that isn’t 

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right. 

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This 

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is not 

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a story is not 

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belonging? 

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Even offerings do not ask 

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to be returned.

Dana Blatte is a sixteen-year-old from Massachusetts. Her work is published or forthcoming in Fractured Lit, Rust + Moth, Gone Lawn, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and more, and has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation and the Pulitzer Center, among others. Find her hyping up her friends on Twitter @infflorescence.