ISLE Of PROMOTHEA


No wily mind do I possess. For if I had,
would I be chained, thus, to this rock, with lengths
of metal, grey like my mind and just as stolid? These manacles
bruise what joy I might hope to find and the sound of my own
bondage shakes me free of intermittent sleep. Daybreak. Unbidden,
the eagle, as if by prayer, cuts the sky, all beak and talons
focused upon my flesh. I half-smile and nod assent, impart
a blessing for his sake that he even bothers to remember
to visit me each day. A poor host, I can only offer
my liver, white with lust, a sweetbread I can't give away.
So, I am accused of stealing fire. Explain the sense of stealing
what no one wants anyway. Look carefully at me, the way I am,
bound, hardwired to the bifurcated desires this body demands.
The thunder, and the thunder, and the thunder sounds.
Pedestrian, I have never managed to outrun the lightning.
I find solace on this rock, surrounded by a wake of water and sky
abandoned by Zeus without benefit of even a copse of trees
to contemplate in the gloaming. Left alone again, I stir
the embers of what I could never steal, for the fire was always,
and ever will be, mine to do with as I please.