Golden Boy

Pandora stopped believing in fate a long time ago,
further back than most mortals care to count,
further back than the gods ever bother to remember,
more years ago than there are arrest warrants 
for figures that look a whole lot like Hermes.
Pandora stopped believing in fate 
a long time ago.

And to some degree she was right,
because the Fates were tired of taking work home with them,
tired of finding tangled strands on the end of every curtain,
tired of their hardwood floors looking like they were carpeted,
tired of feeling like spinsters.
So the sisters 
were on an extended vacation from meddling,
a retreat from control, 
a break from the days surrounded by spools;
they left the scissors in the lockbox, stood up, and left.

So to some degree she was right—
maybe it isn’t for their twisted entertainment that Jason gets cold at night
and wraps up in whatever he can find,
maybe it’s no one’s fault but his own that he
was going for gold and saw the scales only as skid marks;
after all, look at Paris, look at all the lights
twinkling like tiny apples suspended through the streets.
Look at everything he’s tried to throw at her feet.
Pandora stopped believing in fate

and didn’t slow down. 
Maybe he’s at her ankles,
but she’s always been a runner,

and sure, the shine on its side looks interesting,
but curiosity
broke the heart that looked closer,

broke the knees that bent over—
his pockets shake with the frenzy of having left the sky

on someone else’s shoulders;
Pandora has been jogging in the early morning
with a woven bracelet on her wrist.
She’s gotten good at looking the other way,
at sprinting in a split second
when there’s someone who looks just enough like him to be dangerous.

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2 thoughts on “Golden Boy”

    1. Thank you!! It was for a close friend—a really fast, wonderful runner and actually the person who got me interested in running, so the connections that could be stretched out of some myths were too good to pass up.

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