Talking About Fire

Prometheus and his old hawk, sore,
they talk sometimes about the fire,
the broken rule, the broken fence
of his ribs like firewood, recompense
for turning night to day before
the day should be, the taste of flesh,
both raw and cooked, rotten and fresh.
The romance in a candle light.

The hawk is being punished, too:
for taking doves out of the blue
rather than what had fallen.
Wondering how flames make flight,
Prometheus and hawk fall solemn.

Then they make a music of their pain:
the wing-beat wind, the rock, the chain,
the mercy cry of broken host
in concert with the torturer's roar,
his hunger's sterile and nestless brood.
They rival sirens from the coast.
Pretty from a long way off, be sure:
someone's in trouble the color of blood.

Copyright © 2003 John Poch All rights reserved
from Poems
Orchises Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission