(Helen is gone) What shall become of me? Old bee without a sting. I, who was the mother of a pride of warriors. Who walked my palace floors upon golden sandals amidst the bobbing of plumed fans. Shall i watched at a master’s door or sit the night watch for his coughing child? Might I hold a plate of figs for an idle Greek, standing like a statue as the night wears on, listening to the drunken talk spiral into babble as the wine takes hold? Wind a prating girl’s ringlet around my bony finger to curl her hair? Crawl at my mistress’ feet to hem her gown? Shall I turn the spinning wheel or scramble down the dark slope before dawn to carry water from the well? Shall I walk the dung pile of a back yard, tossing cracked corn to skittering chickens or sling soapy water across another’s floor? What won’t be asked of me? Curled with the dogs on dirty straw in my corner of the yard, I will hug my rags around me at night and think of the life I had, the city I lost. And perhaps someday, if I am lucky, I will be \[past weeping for it. And the faces of my dead will mottle and blur until they become indistinct, like stones seen at the bottom of a rushing river bed.