helen

Sue Woodward

In the evening the women are permitted to stand on the battlements to

watch the culmination of the day’s battle. The sun is setting in a stain of

red. Our men are marching raggedly through the gates of Troy, Hector in

front, then Paris, Glaucus and the others.

The Greeks have retreated to their ships, their wagons loaded with dead

bodies and a scrapheap of shields, helmets and spears. Tomorrow will be

the same. There is a cold wind. The king leaves to greet the returning

soldiers. A brazier is burning, the guards are at ease.

I have an impulse to grab a sword, thrust its metal shaft into the brazier,

hold it until it burns crimson, press it to my cheeks, set my hair to

burning, blister my brows, sear my lips, cauterise my ears. My face

would run like lava, turn a thousand wooden ships to stone.

Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow in-person launch of The Only Magic We Know: Selected Modjaji Poems 2004-2020 on 31 March 2022