helen
each time I look on you I am
anew surprised by the features arranged
by your birded eyes narrowing and widening
as your mouth does the same
from time to time synching
in an expression of marvel or soft sternness
I am looking the permitted amount
maybe an inch more
an inch lower
and when you perch close I breathe deeper
inhaling the memory of flowers from your skin
I again take an inventory:
once brushed hair
lithe hands
soft body
all curved angles
then you speak
and I am a tide at your tongue
and when it is not me to whom you speak
I slip back into nothing
awakened only by the flit of your eyes
the chance that they may rest on mine
mine that are so often widened in their search of you
I would be of better use in a lighthouse
waiting for a signal
for ships from troy
but I am menelaus—or paris
whoever cried out helen! to the wind louder
to the reverberate hills:
helen
helen!
and those who think the war was futile
have never seen your face
or known your mind
nor can I know it—
but I estimate a thousand ships
to be quite modest
