her pale and sunken face, beautiful before the years of siege,
barely visible through thick ropes of raven hair matted with blood.
this woman, created by the gods from snowy marble and glittering jewels
now lies face down in the sand, soiled linen dress wrenched up about her waist.

she is numb to the dull ache of a limp and shattered wrist, around which
a silver bracelet once glimmered before a legion of soldiers descended
upon the city like a pack of wolves, invaded her house and flayed the olive skin
of her lover, then threw her to the ground and left her for dead.

she stirs weakly as if shaky with fever, still not daring to open even one eye .
suddenly, a pinch on her toe, sharp like stray sea glass, perhaps; no,
the claw of a horseshoe crab, scarlet like the flames that lick the wounds of
fallen Troy. none can tell whether they intend to soothe or to devastate.