Lady Icarus I believe Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.-Jack Gilbert I would have joined the force but it would be like continuing a childhood fight with my oldest brother at the kitchen sink, him saying it’s a woman’s job to wash dishes as he sprawled his shortish legs on the counter watching pots drip dry, not lifting a finger. Loll about like super heroes in the off-hours: leave the dishes in the sink for when the women come on shift. Stuff their lockers with hardcore porn and command them into the flames dragging uncharged hose until they tumble like Icarus with melted wings. The firewomen insist the grind of isms is far worse than the gruel of the entrance exam, the episodic pull of “bodies” out of burning houses easier than the static load of not being wanted in the fire halls. The fervent start the fire but their brothers stand by until what’s left is chaos and cinders and a funeral pyre for tolerance. No, mine is not the hero’s journey. A fire tolerates (burns with) little air, but flourishes with the breath of many bystanders. A charged hose wielded by the Chief would dampen the smoldering if not the zealous flares. A fire stays small with limited fuel But flares and rages When silence is layered on top of zeal it is fanned by those who watch the pyros without stopping them when witnesses stand by and breathe on the flames fervent heat/fervor In their fervor for the boys club Some of the worst scream dyke into their breathing apparatus so it can be mistaken for another urgency,