Pandora's Knot

They chalked up her curious nature
as insouciance or mindless pride.
They passed her off as a woman of clay,
hollow, with no hidden bones or desires.

With insouciance and a swallow of pride,
she walked in brilliance,
her bones hidden, hollow with desires
like the mist that pearls from the dawn sea.

She walked in brilliance
and cherished her soft silks, as fine
as the mist that pearls from the sea at dawn.
She kept her voice locked. No one noticed.

She loved her colorful silks, as fine
as a thistle seed, but that was not all.
She heard small voices when no one else noticed,
wanted to know the intimate inside

and wished on thistle, but that was not all.
She saw the intrigue and sly strategies,
but she wanted to know what was inside,
to open the knowledge of that dark box.

She watched the gods’ intrigue and strategy,
found that you couldn’t lock hope in a chest,
sequester knowledge inside a dark box.
She cracked the lid, felt trouble in her throat.

She knows that hope is not a trinket in a chest,
some curio chalked up to good nature.
Hope is the knot that ties itself in her throat,
and women are not made of clay.