Prometheus’ Plight

Thoughts while ice skating at Rockefeller Center.
They have placed the firebringer above an ice rink. His ears ring from the whisper of the fountain which has flowed behind him for eighty-six years. His golden skin, naked to the New York snow: frigid in its nakedness. The muscles should ache, suspended as they are, so precarious above the pool. Still, no chain entraps him. The pigeons roosted on the walls have no blood in their mouths. He holds the fire aloft for the world, descending the gold mountain. He does not know: the next mountain will manacle him, will tear the golden skin and let the sun crust the ichor within. Or does he? If the metal arms were mortal, would they shake? Below him, blades shave the rink in uneven cracks, The unskilled dancers collide. A little girl in red earmuffs attempts a candlestick spin, landing red-palmed on the ice. A couple stops in front of the plastic gate to take a picture before: Prometheus, frozen in one last golden moment before the fall.

By Phoebe Rodriguez

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