Ajar

By A.E. Stallings

The washing-machine door broke.      We hand-washed for a week.
Left in the tub to soak,       the angers began to reek,
And sometimes when we spoke,       you said we shouldn’t speak.

Pandora was a bride;      the gods gave her a jar
But said don’t look inside.       You know how stories are—
The can of worms denied?       It’s never been so far.

Whatever the gods forbid,       it’s sure someone will do,
And so Pandora did,       and made the worst come true.
She peeked under the lid,       and out all trouble flew:
 
Sickness, war, and pain,       nerves frayed like fretted rope,
Every mortal bane       with which Mankind must cope.
The only thing to remain,       lodged in the mouth, was Hope.
 
Or so the tale asserts—      and who am I to deny it?
Yes, out like black-winged birds       the woes flew and ran riot,
But I say that the woes were words,       and the only thing left was quiet.
 

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2014/03/ajar/357560/