Pandora's Jar Poem by Giles Watson

Inside the resealed jar, Hope
turned quiescent in darkness,
folded her butterfly-wings
above her back, hid her
eyespots, hibernated.

Had the girl left the lid off,
things might have been
different, but as it was,
there was no escape.

Hope grew tired of sleeping,
flashed open four wings,
flew about in darkness.
She battered herself against
her prison, left its walls
smeared with a bright dust
of wasted iridescence
until the whole substance
of her wings was gone,
leaving only a framework
of veins. Hope snapped off
her own antennae, hurling
herself against the cold
ceramic, until the flight-gift
was beaten out of her,
and still, she crawled
the coil-pot ridges towards
the stopper, seeking light,
hit her head against truth,
fell, climbed, fell, a million
times. Even now, hold
the jar up to your ear,
and you’ll hear the dust-
dry rustle of Hope’s six
questing feet, scratching
at a bung that never opens.