Sunday, May 31, 2009

Like the Clay


"...but the woman took off the great lid of the jar with her hands, and scattered all these sorrows and mischief..."
-Hesiod's Works and Days


They say before she opened
the box (really a jar,
there was a mistranslation)

she–made from the earth,
who we know
is naturally curious–

felt that familiar need
only to discover
the spaces within spaces;

she was wed to discover love's quiet
hollows, and the openness behind her belly-
buttonless belly, but soon

cried out as she opened
her gift, conceiving
the ills of the world.

Before avarice and murder
flew from the mouth
of the jar, she smiled

and like the clay, fractured.


Its shape
was nowhere near


at the rim, imprecise
images of gods
and goddesses (my father

presumably somewhere
in the mix of things).

We, this jar
and I,

were created,

forged. There is
a subtle resonance,
like a lingering note

from inside;

I am amazed
at the craftsmanship.


Catastrophes are rarely taken
fully into account;

the effects
of an action–my apple,
your vessel–

do not reveal themselves
immediately, entirely.

Some things are spontaneous:

guilt, regret, shame,
(the satisfaction/consequence of curiosity).

In the time it takes for a sin
to reach the ears of someone
who minds weeds in the garden,

the waxy skin of the fruit
is sweetest,

the hollow echo within the vessel,
potentially filled
with anything.