"Impure Mythos" is an anagram of "My Promethius," a poem of my father's. He died in 2024, leaving behind a vast archive of poems, stories, and hilarious, rambling emails. In my recent practice, I've worked with his phrases and rhythms, incorporating and answering them in my own writing. He told me once that poems are an attempt to “find a way to be with yourself.” His variant spelling of Prometheus, whether intentional or typo, is now just another on the list of things I wish I could still ask him.
Lock me. Lock me. Joined to peak and tossed about in desperate
pitch, poured in dark embrace to mother rock, tamed by tightening.
Stretch and hold me, padlocked god and captive, burning.
Bind with want, a current conquered, hunger eddied
as gnarled rope. Deny me battle, lie with ligature, muzzle
into silence my invention, reverie, blaze. Hemlock my lips
and kiss. String my robe with snake and lace with hiss.
Preclude my crown and drown the man whose wish,
a oneness, rivers opened. Wrists wound firm and shut
as empty rooms. Fabricate the fight and ring the wringing
fists with fire. Beware the foul flock that feasts as I desire.
The midnight clock is pealing. Dare unlock me. ◆
Homepage Image Credit: Ixchel Tonantzin Xochitlzihuatl, Vision (looks like an astronaut with a snake reflected in the shield of her helmut). 2023, from Gulf Coast Summer/Fall 2025, Issue 37.2
