Pandora
He has his eye on me,
that boy at the window.
I’m perhaps his first nude,
though he’s too young for vice.
His eye is on the ground,
at the box at my feet.
It’s a dreary old day:
hasn’t really lightened.
I’m cold. I must look cold.
He looks so unconcerned.
The briars are as bare
as barbed wire. All is grey.
Does he know what’s inside?
Inside the little box?
I do often wonder
what made me open it.
Perhaps on such a day
as this, cold and dreary
I was bored, turned the key,
let out every evil.
He’s turned away from me,
and speaks to his father.
I hope it’s warmer
the next time we visit.
Wynn Wheldon’s poetry has appeared in numerous magazines, including Ambit, The Interpreter’s House, London Magazine, and The Rialto. His pamphlet Tiny Disturbances was…
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