I am the son

but swap me with Daedalus.

I am the master craftsman of this tale

who carves false realities in wood

and weaves words through distorted 

glasses. 

I am the son

who hears the shrill caw

of a table saw, 

who smells sawdust 

sitting in the air like rain.

I am the son

who watches his father

carry a weighty window on his shoulder

up a rickety, yellow scaffold

caked in drywall mud.

I am the son

who watches his father 

be trampled by wildebeest

who notices the sun spots

gathering atop his father’s

darkening skin–

the sun emblazoned, 

suspended in space,

chilling at its core,

roaring into soundless night.