Pandora
I poured out seasons, then years, then
centuries.
Birth after birth, and every year I tried for a spring,
no matter how slight.
True, there was war and there was plague,
and that old perennial, death.
But such a gush of giving.
It felt like a woman’s water breaking
—then the pain.
I gave them both fire and its tinder.
A moon like an ivory tusk.
I was blamed.