She was the perfect weight to assay gold,
length's measure and the note at perfect pitch.
And if she felt compelled to play the bitch
at once to have hot loins and mind that's cold
to toy with nations and a lover's heart,
how else be free, how else to have a life
save slash her cheeks to tatters with a knife?
Gazed at, not heard. If she would sometimes start
to talk of her desire, they heard her voice
only as music stroking them to heat.
Paris massaged the small bones of her feet
and did not touch her flesh. He was her choice
because he saw her, not the face or hair.
Some myths say she was never really there.
