Again home, Helen
rubs her hands before the hearth,
Attic winds chill the air.
Menelaus, peace
in hand, rubs his belly’s scar,
still king, gray-whiskered.
The dead now, across
the sea, a roll call, told
and sung, old men’s tales.
Whither Patroclus,
Whither Hector and Paris,
Whither, too, Ajax?
Helen, braiding her
daughter Hermione’s hair—
whither Achilles?
Lyman
2022
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