Cretan Fledgling by Christina Ellison (Texas, 23)

Little Icarus, fly on
your small sparrow wings
away from the nest
that was once all you knew.

Weave through the labyrinth
of twigs and leaves
and soar on a breeze
that takes you higher
than these treetops
holding you captive.

Rise above mist
into untouched air,
the sky clear and vibrant
against your dull plumage.

Bask in the warmth
of Apollo’s chariot
waiting for your arrival,
drawn to Dawn’s smile
and promise of freedom.

Little Icarus, fly on
until your frail wings
no longer support you.

Drop like dead weight,
you handheld thing,
so young and so sure
you were invincible.

Fall into the wooden sea,
the cracking of branches
like the crashing of waves,
your body limp and helpless.

Is that your father’s melody
sailing along the jet stream?
It’s discomposing, unfamiliar, 
his chirping closer to screeching,
the lyrics rewritten into a lament.



Christina Ellison is an MFA candidate at Sam Houston State University, an Editorial Fellow at the Texas Review Press, and managing editor of The Measure at SHSU. Her stories appear in Humid 14 and 15. She lives in Spring, Texas and has a knack for potholder loom weaving.