Pandora

Pandora

By Sarah Kelly

Once there was a small child, 

—this child was all of us and perhaps none of us— 

a child who prodded at the unknown and, 

who did not know the meaning of falling 

until they cried out in pain.

The stove is just a box, another toy 

until the child wishes to be Pandora, 

and begins to painfully learn: 

that the red is heat— 

that the heat is powerful— 

that the power is painful.

Curiosity killed the cat 

but satisfaction brought it back. 

See, 

if we never touched that stove, if we never poked that coal,

where would we be? 

Stuck in time, stuck in a place without paintings and books and music—

who among us would still remain, what point to remain would there be? 

There would be no fear of failure because trying wouldn’t exist

There would be no taking risks 

without curiosity.

There would be no cat, 

because who would have even tried to befriend 

the stalking creature in the night?