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
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