Black Sails
Jennifer Pullen 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 locks. 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. |