For Helen
Tim Hawkins
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​
​That time I went and lost you in the dunes--
I called your name in vain all night
swigging from our gallon jug of wine
from one sand-blasted hollow to the next.
I carried the damned jug from place to place
like a faithful servant, like an acolyte.

Throughout that night, both of us lost,
bored to annoyance by the sound
of my own voice, my thoughts wandered
as I meandered among the hard-scrabble
pines and sharp-bladed grass.

I began to think of the wandering bard
repeating the same tale from village to village.
Did he ever get to be a bit of a bore,
if forced to winter in an isolated place?
Did the apprentice boy ever cast
a furtive eye at the nearest sail,
while carrying his master's bowl?
Did he roll his eyes at the shopworn epithets,
finally stripped of all meaning, holding
the story together like a worn leather strap?
Did the villagers ever tire of hearing
the old man honing his story through
elaborate practice, while gorging
on fish and olives and wine
at the feast of the goddess?
I wondered if the bard and his boy were urged
on their way with the very first hint
of Aegean spring in the morning air.

Did he, like me, think of his own Helen,
who in the end was not mine,
or of a jug and a bed of sand
on a wind-blasted night
in a wretched waste of years,
the lugging to and fro,
the blisters on his feet, the calloused hands
from his walking staff, his blindness,
and the lazy sot, who spills or drinks his wine?

​When rosy-fingered dawn approached
I found you nestled in the sand,
afraid all night to answer my shrill,
insistent, and then fading calls.
I have since carried the torch, the jug,
and now, at long last, the tale.