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i.
When I was six a phoenix
tried to drown me.
Underwater I grabbed for fire.

Like Icarus, I was reaching
towards the sun.

I hope he still has
bald spots. I hope he still
cradles searing scars.

He was death,
I was the bird.

ii.
My uncle knows plastic-
wrapped soaps as well
as he knows fine wines.

If he drinks enough,
he thinks it’s love-
carved names rubbing
the silver drain smooth. Diver: 28 days
sweating, ship black against
sea. Like it had been peeled
from amber tongues.

iii.
On my fifteenth birthday, the boy
with stars on his fists and Saturn’s
rings in his eyes told me I was pretty.
It was the first time
anyone had said so. I learned
how to hold my breath,
how to apply foundation,
how to cry

without bleeding tar
down my cheeks,
and how to wear my bones
quieter.

iv.
He says he does it for the money.
He says you have to come up slowly
or else something inside of you will explode.

I didn’t understand what he meant
until I realized my throat was still
somewhere in his bed, tired
and having forgotten itself.

v.
When I left I drove as far
and as fast as I could.
I wear waterproof mascara now. But even

with the feathers sprouting fiery from between
my shoulder blades - I don't look
straight at the sun.