That Last Part of Pandora’s Gift
Hesiod tells us about a jar the gods gave Pandora
and I search through my memories for evidence.
I never saw smoother skin on display
than in my little brother’s casket,
barely old enough to drink
eight years after he smoked his first bowl.
And I don’t subscribe fully to anyone’s religion,
but I must concede: Pandora opened her gift.
And I’ve seen demon marvels the ancient Greeks
never have. Like fire tornadoes and Frankenstorm Sandy.
Footprints of wickedness of every shape
are left on those who have been trampled.
Like a dust-covered five-year-old boy in Aleppo
sitting in an ambulance,
alone.
A few years later, bombs from the same factories
found a pregnant woman in a hospital in Mariupol
as they leveled that city, too.
A few months after that, the bombs found
a spot in Dnipro where a dust-covered dog
would sit on the rubble of his home while his family
was found in pieces, on the neighbors’ rooftops.
Less than two weeks later, in Kyiv, the most dangerous part
of crossing the intersection of Volodymyrska Street
and Shevchenko Boulevard was not the other commuters,
but one of those missiles, dropping from the sky.
I don’t want to argue with the Greeks,
but it isn’t a jar. It is a well.
Which makes the search for that last part
of Pandora’s gift all the more important.
So small and quiet, some days you may miss it
entirely. I found it for a moment, hiding
in the photo of a 10-year-old girl from Odesa,
asleep with her cat in Cloverdale, California,
reunited by way of five countries and a chain of
strangers who were tired of feeling helpless.