[Despair, Edvard Munch, 1892]
I clamber up the crags through masking mist
of morning light, the edge of day, afix
the wings to arms and mold the softened wax.
Feathers fan out from my widening breast
as I inspire a fulness of my breath
then bow my head. Above me, feathers mix
in cream and white. Below, my knees go lax.
My soles flush flat to rock. Now cleave the wreath of rays. I wrap their brilliance back and pine
the earth away. The sun who loves me sees
me part the heavy light in yawning torques,
my flaxen bask, a yellow yellow twine.
A sap of gilded wax runs down in streams.
I’m wet and glistening golden. I am yours.