Andrew Demcak

Troy

who knew those light rooms
that ancient somewhere
its rotting joints?

there were no photos of
the place
just a myth needled in
a rope
tethering the throat of the capital

what restraint and fear among the broken
militia--
or the hollow of Helen's
bed that would swallow you up like Scylla?

and were the drifting
sounds of enemy boats
military
intelligence--
those skiffs coasting in full
of knives and bronze spears?

didn't some God speak
fighting his hair
about a kidnapping
avenged
the nature of human-rights?

all this lifted from bric-a-brac
a boot
buckle in the attic
from an island
store
a horse found
given out of love--or
the prospect of war?