NITE-VISION ~ The HELEN of TROY

How could human language describe perfection? There were no faculties nor imaginations that could describe Namé as she made her entrance onto that yacht. All eyes snapped open and even some of the most cynical had a moment when they bulged. There were double takes everywhere. Gasps of something akin to awe... She was simply stunning.

She was wearing a dress that was cut from the fabric that she was famous for. NITE-VISION. The fiber-optics shot through a velvet you could sink your arm into. It was a background color of deep purple & indigo. The scintillating sheen every color of the aurora borialis.

The dress itself was a simple cut. The figure within it, however, was anything but simple. Curve upon curve, line for line she was the most lithely lush female, statuesque yet strangely approachable. This was FLESH. Not a marble form to be cordoned off.

If the masculine eyes could be torn off her lower body, rise above her neck which was like the curve of an egret, they would dwell on her face. And they would never leave.

She was angelic. Yes. She was. Yet she had ascertain mein which was almost like a waif. A street urchin. Her jawline was almost a perfect oval. Almost. There was an angular quality to it too. The Planes of her face could have been sculpted by an Egyptian. Or Greek. Or a Japanese mask maker. There was absolutely no way to describe it. Her cantilevered cheekbones were delicate as glass, but seemed to have, in their depths, an Armitage of pure tungsten.

Her hair was a color the painter Titan would envy. It could never be captured by his palette. Gold. Platinum. And Hollow fire. It was swept up on the side and you held by a perfect Indigo, lavender and Ivory comb. It was in the shape of an orchid. No one had seen her hair. Not fully. It was always held up with braids and strands on the top of her head. Tonight it was fully down. The comb the only thing that graced it. It was like a river going through the Black Hills. And all the colors of it's Pink gold.

But her eyes were the most arresting feature of her face. Fringed by lashes that were dark brown golden fire, as every bit as  long as her mother's. The irises were dark indigo shot with cerulean blue. But towards the pupil they were light lilac. If eyes were the windows to the soul, this was a soul that was not simply human, nor even angelic. Namé was a force of nature.

But the reason for the four men in dark suits with steam shovel Jaws became quite obvious on close inspection to the lady's midsection. Yep. She was wearing it. Just as she said she would. The most dazzling pearl to grace woman...

The HELEN of TROY

Frigid
Like an ice sculpture
In the bowels
of Pluto.
An iceberg in
a fjord.
Yet Having
no more substance
than an armature.
A windchime
of liquid nitrogen.

Gusty ghosts whistle
in harmony with the
shuddering of
Aurora Borialis.

Hunkered down
with no more
means than
a pocket
full of
metal
shavings.

A derelict who
has pushed
his shopping cart
all the way to
the point of
no return.

Now he sits
begging so
he'll have
enough to
hobble hunched.
To be a
high wire.


To
rattle
and
hum.