Types of Fire

Alexa Stevens
An outline of cream flames on a bright red background.
I have eaten mountains and they
Poke through my eyes,
Stone headache through my temples and dirt
Heartache through my thighs.
An eagle’s cry, the blinking sky –
Prometheus heaves a heavy sigh and offers me
His liver, to chew on as I die.
I almost do not take it, this
Olive branch, this thought to try.
Through my stomach flows the Acheron of
Buried tears I’ve had to cry. But
Through my lungs, the river runs, just
Thoughts of tears (the shivering ones), the ones
Forced out of me, to dry. I’ve dug
Two graves and there I lie.
My body in one, mangled mind in the other,
With the fire and its thief,
The one I called ‘brother’.
His olive branch withers
Underneath my eyes unblinking,
For the depth that waits beneath his gaze
Is pity not fit for drinking.
Here, the rock devours my flesh
Like waves that gnaw at the shore,
And I know that his caress
On the brow could not be anything more
Than a sinewy vine to bind me down,
Flesh chained to mountain floor.

Oh, if my hands could form fists,
That would be the day.

We are both hungry,
So Prometheus heaves another sigh
And chews through my liver,
Through the thoughts of tears,
Until all that is left to do is

(At least I burned with the fire I stole).