Icarus Complex

Icarus Complex

by Ebony Isis Booth

I.

There is a balm in Gilead, to soothe the sin sick

wound festering on the tip of my new, New Mexican tongue

a different heft than my old, New Jersey diction

it is tender, and swollen

just the tip

discolored ever so subtly,

positioned in a familiar and foreign palette of brown

speculation as to what shade is the new, nude in this place

estimating by careful assessment if it is safe here

to be nude

            and at this end of the spectrum of flesh tones

observing nearby vacancies for blue black and mahogany

            feeling phantom pangs of color disappeared

grateful that visual expression is not my creative jig

            I cannot paint this picture

what of the words 

I have catapulted from a fleshy soft palate of pink

like healthy pussies deliver healing from oh, ye gates

in thanksgiving and the men with poison dripping from their organs

pipe sludge from the bowels of holy ground and pound holes

in the foundation of everything that matters

to consider the darkness of my language this close to the sun

is blasphemous

these are the words

memorized and repeated in rapid recitation

sometimes in rhythm with invisible drums

or sung from the bottom of a boat or ravine

wherever my discarded ancestors’ carcasses lay

I wonder if the sun bleached bones of disappeared black girls miss their melanin

do they retain the sensation of double-dutch and drill team

once absorbed by

now, dehydrated marrow?

to consider the condition of my skin this close to the sun is

nonsensical

II.

the only words I know

are painted in the color of my perspective

rose colored lenses affirm drunken genealogy lessons of

how we came to have Indian in our family

never have I felt so ashamed of that fact

until news that this new, New Jersey girl’s great-great-great grandmother was Cherokee

and/or slave

new, New Mexican shade of brown girl stands face to face

with members of  the First Nations

who know the meaning of their names and do not need me as kin

to validate an internal need to make brown synonymous with other

in a place previously unnamed,

now filed under shame

I thought this tidbit of what I am mixed with

gave me status among all the other shades insecurity might turn a face

disgraceful

you learn things about the words you know when you breathe new air

their weight changes

the output of lungs in a room might elevate you with all the warmth and splendor

of hot air balloons in winter

or escape you after the sunrise and leave you abandoned and deflated

by the scheduled time of my first meeting

I am often empty and off course

the wind refuses my fare

the gasps and tight lips from the opposite end of the palette

retrieve their hot air

if I drop weight

nose ring

sterling silver set stones

hips

all that hair

I could say the words that I know

true and simultaneously inoffensive

lighten the discoloration

lance the infection site with wit

soothe the tender and swollen thing festering

use the words I know again and levitate

unafraid

often the only

always the same

these words are all that I have

every syllable an anchor

syntax rescued from a deluge of blood

burdened down like Monday morning hangovers

dangling 164 lb corpse testing fortitude of trash can liners

           

heavy

death drop in the pit of your stomach

“will you accept the charges?” phone calls and parenthetical

bank balances

“you think, maybe tomorrow we can call my daddy?”

picking Powerball numbers from unarmed victims’ ages

because there were too few indictments

           

16, 22, 28, 43, 50 Powerball: 12

all of the songs I sing sound best in minor keys

the words are so heavy

maybe the reason my voice is so deep