What dreadful fate is to be born
out of the semen of a randy god
and placed in the realm of heroes
as a woman; as something men think
they must own, must woo, conquer,
deal as they please or simply steal.
What strange prophesy must be fulfilled?
What twisted game of ironic gods
demands she be so perfect, that even
Aphrodite will use her as a bribe
to someone as worthy as that Paris,
for something as precious as an apple.
Stolen once, then once again, the toy
of daring men who never knew
the colour that she liked, the beating
of her heart when not immersed in fear,
the child that would cry on Troy’s walls
for the absence of her brothers.