Helen Of Troy

What makes a town?
Two houses and one street,
a crossing,
a doorbell,
a doormat.
Leaving one home for another
is inevitable, like rice
spilling from a torn sack.

I boil a porridge of sulphur on the fire
to feed the enemies
and to hide you in the smoke.
What is a war?
Two swords
and one horse.
You will disentangle
the knot of my hair
from your armour.
I, the daughter of a god,
will break through the shell of this egg.
Then every man will call me his wife,
his trophy.
Ten years of siege,
ten folds in my dress.

What is a woman?
Two breasts,
one womb.
On these dusty roads
where I drag myself
like the hem of a dress,
nothing more –
just a few beats
in a line of this poem.