Where Even Prometheus Pauses

She believed in her fire,
so fiercely that Prometheus might forget the rock,
leave the crows hungry,
just to watch
a heart burn
without a flame.

She believed in her loyalty,
so deeply that Prometheus would seek human eyes,
not to steal the gods’ light,
but to see Penelope
growing gracefully gray
as she waits for Odysseus.

For some waits
are worth more than any heroic war,
and some women hold the world
by quietly weaving time itself.

She believed in her tears,
and the rivers of late April
bent before them,
learning that not every stream
expects the sea as reward.

She believed in her silent pain,
where words blush and falter,
stripped bare of meaning,
running naked
through mouths
that cannot hear.

She believed in the hands of her spirit,
wet with truth,
that did not cleanse the world,
but made it aware
of its own filth.

And in the end,
when loneliness walks beside him
like a shadow without a name,
he whispers:
“It was only a dream.”

Yet when they dress you
in your final garment,
who would not want
to see once more
Prometheus paused,
Penelope waiting,
and oneself
suspended
between them?

—Migel Flor