Kristine Williams
Daedalus

He must have been reminded
by the smell of the sea. Turning
a corner and there,
inexplicable,
just a whiff, rising to meet him:
seaweed-rank, brine,
that memory. Such staggering
sorrow, the next
breath tearing its
way out of lungs
suddenly airless, hands
clutching for anything solid
as the world tilted,
coming up to meet his
knees. Passersby, careless,
going on, eddying around
him. Those fingers,
scarred by years of the
business of invention, picking
up splinters that would fester
for a week before being
expelled, so deep.
But not deeper than
the knowing: there was no way
to stop that moment
of ecstatic, dizzying flight
and sudden, terrible
tumbling down.

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