after Prometheus Bound by Peter Paul Rubens
This, I suppose, is the ancient definition
of suffering: a great
eagle with no personal grudge
sinks his beak
day after day
into guts and blood,
a vicious circle
of punishment and redemption.
Prometheus, I think, had the edge,
for he grew to know
his tormentor fully, could forgive,
even love,
the great bird whose mighty talons
tore his groin. I wonder if
the grand eagle could
ever forgive the man
whose flesh he gored
daily, all those years—
his tongue numb from sameness.
Perhaps over the years
like any married pair
they would look in each other’s eyes,
a braided thread of light and dark
stitching one to the other.