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Yankee Prometheus
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, where she's hoping to nab someone's story for editing.

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