Leda's House

Helen sits cross-legged on the sagging sofa, wonders
Who she will take to the dance, paints her nails glitter pink.
She studies the flawless skin on one hand, adjusts a cuticle.

She hears her mother singing low, clinking dishes in the sink
When Clytemnestra in her black jeans bangs out the screen door.

Mama still murmurs, curses low when the sky opens
Through her perfect false teeth.
Her own fell out during pregnancy, 15 years
Of green beans and secondhand coats ago.

She was 17 then, still felt a phantom soreness
In the night, a beak at her throat,
The mud hanging heavy in her hair
While her deficient teeth crumbled
To build smooth round bones for Helen

Who knows these things.
When Helen looks into the eyes of the boys at school
They are gliding away from her.

She plucks her eyebrows and wonders
What dark wing beat, what purer clay
Regular girls come from.