By Meagan Chandler
They called Pandora’s curiosity
her curse. Her need to find the source
of the death bells and desperate clawing,
a weakness. When smoke black as crow song
danced through the cracked lid, they told us
breathe in truth and your lungs will burn.
They didn’t want us scouring village wells
for bloated bodies of women. Uprooting lilies
to find bone just as white beneath. The truth
about Pandora is that her veins were threaded
with urge to open doors boarded
by scraps of weathered cathedrals.
The truth:
Women like us have nightmares
with our eyes open.