Half smile.
Uplifted nose defies the air.
A divine trace of her father’s swan eyes
still lurks, half drowned beneath
the tranquil colors of ageless lagoons.
Blue moons dissolved
in clouds at dusk.
She speaks a present day
dialect of lost isotopes and xenon dust,
betrayed by the ancient
rhythm of Leda’s hips.

She does not recognize me.
I sit across her, in a sea of dead men
who argue modern numbers
and utter words unknown by the past.
I’m still a city in France.
I’m still the blood colored
promise of grapes,
the darkest rose,
raspberry smooth, and treacherous.

She thinks herself a mortal.
I think herself far more.
The fire and grace of flamenco,
the sweeping desire of skin,
cat walk muse, fertility rite.
Memory of dreams of fire,
empty horse, failed Trojans.
Helen is still launching
ships at forty-something.
Paris still awaits across the sea.