When I was new and knew how to fly up
to the sun, my silver wings pierced its yolk,
their wax hinges dripped. I dropped to the cup
of the sea, abandoned my feathered yoke.
For you and I are made of rain and salt.
We sink at first, as heavy stones, then rise
above, back towards the sun, until we halt
to gasp, to wipe the dull sting from our eyes.
Now I am old, no longer fly or dip
below the cool crease of the water’s edge.
I leave all that to you, fierce girl, to flip,
and paddle in the chlorine, float and fledge.
Our world—fluid and fire, flesh and breath—
will close soon enough. Rapture that blue depth.
— Sally Mills
