Painted

I was there when Achilles fell,

there before the horse—

before it all: the burning wall,

before Clytemnestra buried her blade.

I was there when Aphrodite lied,

offering me as a bribe.

I never wanted Paris,

never wanted to be pawned off

to a second son

any more than my mother wanted

feathery ravishment, divine desecration,

cursing me with this face

that never craved a single ship,

only to relax into the lie

that no one would dare cross

the redheaded king,

even to steal his bride.

I was never of Troy:

Curse the poets stripping me

of my identity.

I am Helen,

Queen of Sparta.