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Helen



I give you Helen, aged, eighty-six,
with nary a trace remaining of her
legendary beauty—
what have I given you? What have you now?

Let her wrinkly gnarled fist erase, erase what
came first and what was meant to last.
Cui bono now—you, me, she
who hath endured the passions unto a distant end?

She has no need of words and barely speaks.
She has no need of tears and rarely weeps.
Helen is no longer Helen, and tragedy
unpeeled reveals a seed of spoilage,
a pit of spite.

All poems are written and copyrighted by Michael C. Rush.
None may be republished or repurposed without permission.