prometheus — light crammed between his jaws
licking up the insides of his teeth
scratching enamels in their
his climb — ran triumphant
meek made resplendent tossing
the ember from his mouth and
great golden blooms sprouted into the loam
fire.
now man’s — where the gods decreed
cried you will worship us and
you will be cold at our feet —
deeply and truly held
in those calloused mud clay palms
prometheus shackled now
bloody and torn upon the broken word
but unforgotten
a willing martyr for —
the hearth and the heat and the cooking fire
and the healing touch and the red reflection and
the salvation and the flame
and the warmth
the warmth is worth it
the warmth lingers