Paris, After

Helen, why have you come?  To hear your name

Possess the harbor like a hymn again?

Your ships are ages gone, nothing's the same:

The seas stand empty of our gods and men.

You wear the easy gown I favored most;

See there, my blood yet clings at breast and thigh—

O, that my wild blood were alone the cost

Of all we set in motion, you and I!

Ten years your lover, I will tell you this:

You loved your legend only.  And when soot

Was all that loomed at Troy, and the shore's hiss

The one sane sound, fields smoking to the root,

You took the morning tide, sailing apart,

Resting your case on a blind poet's heart.

Moore Moran

From Firebreaks, Salmon Run Press, © 1999.  Reprinted
by permission of the author.