TREADING FIRE I, peacock, in this cage of light, must pace;/ For resplendent in one-thousand-faceted mirrors,/ In the artificial conservatory,/ I am tethered to introspection,/ Building lapis-lazuli monuments/ To a million profane eyes.// Or, am I prisoner of the flip-book movie train--/ Now, alternating bars of pitch and bright,/ A rapid-transit schooner of the track-grid life,/ Gliding in Doppler motion toward some ultimate/ And static mouth of darkness?// In the umbric ellipse of the elevated train,/ I wrap the lion’s skin around me,/ For, I have found myself ashore,/ Slippered in bottle-glass, in leggings/ Of leaves and silver,/ And, treading fire on the doomed boardwalk,/ Where xanthic stripes of hard light,/ Paste the sun to planks, buttering shadows.// There must be a mark, pocked,/ On the nautilus map of life,/ Where the eventuality of pain finally,/ Asserts its turnkey shell.// Slag-spun to oily dross and jetsom,/ Sequined in the fish-scales where I drowned,/ Pushing down the losing sand to tide,/ Is death’s suave water mark:// Worn to effect by waves of fire,/ Torn to the bone and kidnapped by/ the undertow,/ Aflame in the hot-lipped sting of the jellyfish kiss,/ In thrall to the swordfish’s trident slash,/ The metered crab caressing the seagull,/ The marlin measuring time.// The orange orb that covers us in feathers of gold,/ Falls into the sea, and floats,/ near the zinc horizon;/ Iridescent in self-light,/ Like illuminated fruit in a tidal/ pool,/ Manacled, to twilight.// --Lola Rodriguez, "Treading Fire" Copyright 2012. All Rights Reserved. Rodriguez' work has appeared in over 60 publications--books, magazines, reviews, and journals. Please use contact information to book performances and workshops.