I wonder if in the arms of Paris,

Helen missed Menelaus.

In truth, both men were a menace

of the heart, the body and blonde locks

ships sailed for,

bones splintered for,

skulls cracked for,

Hector died for,

Andromeda cried for,

Achilles bent the knee for,

Patroclus sacrificed himself for,

but no one prayed for.

Menelaus was abusive;

King who kept his wife a prisoner.

It was the lost look in her eyes

which made her beautiful.

It was her submission

which made her worth fighting for.

Paris was a thief, not of love

but of Aphrodite’s making;

and the way Helen’s bottom lip quivered,

was just right, ripe for the taking.

A forbidden fruit,

another man’s property,

a queen with dominion

over the roses in her cheeks

and her welts

and the salt in her tears

and her wish to melt into the sea.

I wonder if Helen

ever…