Alone in the room she holds the key, winds herself in velvet drapes to face
Pandora's box. Outside, ball-chasers charge, warriors fence to keep the falling night
at bay. They juggle their play, bounce their voices high to push the neighbourhood dark
away. Inside, she turns the key in the lock on the box, at once is knee-deep
in phosphorescence. Behind the cobwebs, beyond the window, the players watch
as colours pop and sizzle across her face. All noble combat is abandoned then
prospects of victory over dark no longer tempting in the rounding dusk. Paper cut-outs
in the guise of children blow now into the room. They sink flat and folded, buckle up
to make the trip comfortable in the sofa's cushioned lap.
Ah me, blank box, the old oak table on which you stand once was the wooden floor
for grandmother's dolls-house dramas. You give us grounds for discontent and yet
we lift your lid in any case set your contents loose upon us.
All plump and animated chatter shrinks to settle in the wings amongst our game and books
and other well-worn things. You take the stage and strut, displaying the stuff of which
you are made. You suppose we cannot see you taunt and flirt and purse your painted lips?
But no. We are wiser than you might think.
This week we have a guest editor on the Tuesday Poem hub - Madeleine Slavick, a US writer who lives in the Wairarapa. Madeleine has chosen SO THERE by Robert Creeley.
Please click on the quill.