by Sydney Sackett
I heard the titan in Manhattan cry—
they’d gilded him in place and repossessed his fire,
leased it by the ember through oil and gas gods. They said
if we had the right to light, we would’ve been born glowing.
Atlas they busted for the plaint to unionize
his burden, share the world on fresher shoulders. No
shareholder votes to pay when service guarantees the serf’s
survival, and they’ll pass on before his strength fails anyway.
I found on pay-per-view Pandora’s box, kept open always,
vacant and slick with ecstasy and Ritalin. The hope was
auctioned for display at Hefner’s Mansion, but the girl
will reenact temptation, deplete of any other thing.
Followed a bloody river next. Too late, already they’d
gunned Moses down in a profit-prison break as his
arms raised up and parted wide the sally port—some say
frogs rained in Bishopville SC for days.
Sent a letter to Jesus then. He returned
postcards from Kenneth Copeland's second cruiser. Says
they're busy resizing camels' eyes, but I could stop by
to get my Osteen McBible signed.
When I gave up, I joined a line
of billions long and watched Prince Philip ply
his FastPass+, fight Epstein elbow-to-elbow tight to
swipe an Amex Black at holy Peter's ticket gate.
Sydney Sackett (she/her) is a queer speculative fiction author and poet pursuing her English major in Frostburg State University, Maryland. Some of her work appears in Etherea, Short Circuit, and Not One of Us. The writer can be tracked down at sydneybsackett.wixsite.com/website, where she's hoping to nab someone's story for editing.