Prometheus - Trayvon Martin

Not always intentional, this hauling
fire down from the heavens, humanizing

the grand machinery of witness. Sometimes
the Titan deep within a hungry young man 

propels him out into streets owned by 
ferocious gods, heavied by a handful

of sweetness, expecting nothing more
than night and the knowledge that night

only lasts so long. Who knew eagles
could feast forever? That gods don’t share

their fire freely? Goddamn this ever-
regenerating liver, this body lashed

to rock lashed by sea imprisoned in
its own tender enormity. Before dissolving

into myth, newsprint, statistic, sometimes
a body wears the world like this: brutally

bright: innocent: that bit of starshine shot through
constant night. In the flame he’s handed us, unwittingly,

an ugly gratitude. A thank you without reply. A mother
without a son. Eagle and skin. His skin, still a heresy.