Читать книгу The Half-God of Rainfall - Inua Ellams - Страница 7

Portrait of Prometheus

as a basketball player.

His layup will start from mountains

not with landslide, rumble or gorgon clash

of titans, but as shadow-fall across stream –

some thief-in-the-night-black-Christ-

type stealth. In the nights before this,

his name, whispered in small circles, muttered

by demigods and goddesses, spread rebellious,

rough on the tongues of whores and queens,

pillows pressed between thighs, moaning.

Men will call him father, son or king

of the court. His stride will ripple oceans,

feet whip-crack quick, his back will scar,

hunched over, a silent storm about him.

Both hands scorched and bleeding;

You see nothing but sparks splash off

his palms, nothing but breeze beneath

his shuck ’n’ jive towards the basket

carved of darkness, net of soil and stars.

Fearing nothing of passing from legend to myth

he fakes left, crossover, dribbles down

the line and then soars – an eagle chained

to hang time.

– Inua Ellams