The Conceit

If she had left that lid ajar,
let hope flow into the world
like a scarlet chimera,
cat shadow on a midnight fence,
echo of a piano note.

To lock faith in a box.
All of its familiars—
anticipation, trust, the belief in luck—
lingered inside her,
burned like fires at the river’s edge.

Once a celestial gift, she was left
with the twin birds of blame and guilt,
a name that followed her
as vapid reputation
with a knack for calamity.

Mistrust smolders like last night's embers,
sparks squinting in angry eyes
that blink and grow cold,
blow like fine ashes
in the dawn cold.