I wonder if Helen resented
her beauty, maybe made tiny
cuts on the bottoms of her feet,
scars a secret ugliness.
Helen probably never loved
Paris but rather the sea,
seduced by waves and wind
whipping her hair into salty
Almost flight, almost wings;
sails a projection of desire.
Ancestral swan longing--
Surely Helen felt wing buds
pressing behind her skin.
Earth must have been a betrayal,
landing, sand, courtly greetings,
those days before the war.
Standing on battlements watching
slaughter in her name, blood writing
calligraphy in the sand, maybe she
almost took a step, took flight.
Art used with consent by nine9nine9. Visit his page here.
About the author:
Jennifer Pullen is a PhD candidate in Creative Writing and 19th century British Literature at Ohio University in Athens Ohio. Her stories and poems have appeared in journals including: Going Down Swinging (AU), Cleaver, The Rubbertop Review, Phantom Drift Limited, Off the Coast, and Clockhouse.