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    • Op-Ed/Memoir
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TROY WOMEN

Hecuba, a queen who lost her family and country overnight, now addresses Helen of Troy, and the Greek general Menalaus, who will decide how to punish Helen.
BUY SCript HerE

HECUBA
 
Aphrodite wrenched you from home.
No.
I remember my son’s body.  His young mouth.
The way his hair curled when he sweat.
Want was your love-god.
Menelaus is a much older man.
And his palace was small
compared to the wonder of Troy.
 
We sent Paris in robes of gold
carrying bright gifts.
Taken by glint and by flash
you wanted.
You wanted.
 
Force?
Who heard the screams?
Your brothers were there.
Pollux and Castor, stars now,
were human still.
Where was the struggle?
You’re a pretty girl.
Someone would have saved you if you tried.
 
No, you came here.
They followed.
Blood and bodies fell fast.
Strong Greeks, you told my son at night,
My Menelaus, you said,
feeding his worst days with doubt.
 
But in our times of glory
you were spark and oil.
My bronze man, you would say,
my one.
My hot and shining man.
My one.
 
That was Helen’s war.
How to choose a winner.
 
What an exquisite image:
you caught in rope
dangling off our wall
leaving.
Did no one ever teach you
how a lady uses rope
when she is torn from her
beloved lawful lord?
She strings her neck and jumps.
 
But Troy is a nice place to relax
Fine fabric and gold.
Salt breeze.
Herbs for the complexion.
 
While my girls were taken one by one
you have been fixing your hair.
And that is the only gown in the city
untorn.
You are glorious.
You must bathe often.
 
You radiate poise, it’s true.
Even pride.
A human being in your position
would shave her head and crawl,
tear the face responsible.
 
Did you hear, Lady Helen
that there was a war?
 
So, Menelaus.
Act now.
A whore should die.
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HARTMAN
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