The Mystery Box

In the closet of nearly every woman
hides a beautiful pair of red high-heeled shoes.
She never forgets they're there. Sometimes
she gets them out and puts them on in
her cleaning clothes or in her gown.
She may have worn them once or twice.
They tempted her more than chocolate.
Her resistance to them is manifest
but she needs to know she can access them.

They're a sort of symbol -- old, prehistoric
yet palpable. An apple, glittering in
the sunshine. An orb so perfect, so pungent,
so pregnant with possibilities that she would
sacrifice anything for one bite of it. She
understands that allure; she can't articulate it.
If she could, she'd deny it. Shame dances
around that symbol and guilt too.

She keeps them in an ordinary shoebox.
No one suspects the shoes mean anything.
But sometimes as she is choosing a shirt,
or a dress for church her eyes fasten on the
box and it seems to be made of gold, set with
jewels. She quickly smirks away her smile.
The box could be made of glass. She
sees the shoes, their curves, their soles,
the way they hold her feet, they lift her
to the fullness of womanhood.

The gods gave a beautiful box to Pandora;
bestowing on her beauty, grace, intelligence too.
She couldn't contain the accessory of her curiosity.
She may have thought the box held a pair of red shoes.
She may have dreamed of an entrance,
stopping the show, dancing red in marble halls.
She opened the jeweled box releasing evil,
all evils, on the world.
She expected death.
She found hope.

Every woman who owns a box of red shoes
instinctively knows that.

(c) Gay Reiser Cannon - 2011



Posted for Form Monday @onestoppoetry  
And for the OPENING CELEBRATION @ dVersepoets