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Pandora’s Dress
(In Four Pieces)
by Peter Schwartz
1.
there are no soft doors in this
knocking isn’t a joke
when pandora considers herself
she considers herself
like a postcard from outer space
she is no etcetera and will not
be treated as such
she’s thanksgiving in a verb
queen of undying crickets
bittersweet omnivorous
she slides over her would-be
custodians coldly as she must
having freshly sacrificed
her deep jagged medallions
laughing each threshold away
falling off her bearings
2.
she’s been raised on eggshells and calabash
slow against the backdraft of her own particulars
manic over mountains hosanna cornucopia
before the hour crumbles like bad crackers
she could be minerva’s cousin sweating out
some inoculable tuesday on a borderline campground
she might count siblings in the pith and ripplings
of shylock and temporary evidence
she might
3.
alone she cannibalizes the differences
she strangles out a skeleton key out of old duration
she vandalizes her own soul
with ketchup
ever the correspondent she bruises naturally
as sick as a teacup
who but her could drink milk
and spit out wine or worse hemlock
with no dress to match the occasion
nothing to humor the yellow jackets
once upon a time the furies
4.
poor pandora she couldn’t see deserving
an excuse when the owls freaked out her cadets
and left monkeys on her chalkboard
she cannot see re-
boxing her collection of dead blessings
and going to the bazaar without
shame
too much torso
for too little
she’s her own mermaid
more than anyone she knows
she knows the silk of widowhood
can only be
folded
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