Epimetheus

When the sky is a mutable blue
spread around her like the ocean,
she thinks of him blinded by luck.

Pandora was just the hook,
a lately clay hand in marriage,
a sealed box baited with secrets.

Dazzled, he took her into his home,
capered about like a fish on a string.
She became a housewife, with time

as heavy as an anchor on her neck.
Delight might have been worth
its weight in guilt.

The chest was an albatross.
Will was a wing.
When he left her cold by the fire

she looked for flight or bliss,
any fury she could name.
Now she has lost

the currents of his face,
the feeling of his immortal hands,
a fate she could not keep.