Pandora

When love poured out its whiskey

she preferred to drink it straight

though time had pronounced her fate

accompli. In every kiss

              she sought the key

to rewind time, to restore

Pandora’s palimpsest

to unlock the expensive chest

of her heart’s history

              the closed door

closed for good, or so

she should have hoped. Death

was the script that underneath

it all the heart sought more

              than it could know.

When love poured out its absinthe

she added no water to it

though life in each minute

grew thinner and absence

              grew stronger in the

passage of each kiss.

If every fate has wings

the heart on its perch will sing

all night that every creature

              must live with less.

Time contains all tears.

She stares at the box, the jeweled

lock so perfectly tooled

but the key on its golden chain

              can never appear.

When life runs away like water

and everything becomes clear

the transparent globe of a tear

is the period on what we say

              when we know fate

has had its way with us.

She perches on the lip

of an empty glass—will she leap

from thirst, or will she stay

              on that precipice?