She was no traitor, but she liked the boy
and then his love, her master. Saw the way
they touched each other's hair, and day by day
grew comfortable there, so near to Troy,
so far their tent from war, although each night
she scrubbed blood from his tunic, bathed the sweat
of war from him. His captive, slave or pet,
unclear. In bed, both men would hold her tight
Sometimes, but kissed each other. Men came, took
her off to Agamemnon. It assuaged
her grief that while her lord Achilles raged
no Trojans died. He came for her. His look
melted her and she helped him wash his friend.
As she would wash him too before the end.
