16. Slaying of the Suitors.

Arrow in the throat, pitched wine, meat smear in hot
grease. To gag on an oath, to gulp blood. To have seen
no script in birdflight. One rolls under the table,
gutted, where once he tumbled the plump-armed maid      and
poured himself out against her belly. For flesh seeks
flesh, even in the final banquet, and dark meets light
as if it were a dance. A kind of music floats from the
shuttered hall.

17. Lynching of the House Maidens.

Spasm in the pelvis, involuntarily jerking legs: they
have known this dance before. It wasn't called
justice, then. Pleasure takes us by storm. One has to
have a knack for abandoning oneself, that too is an
art. The human body would break most olive boughs,
there is such weight in us.

18. Laertes' Supper.

You want the pattern to declare itself, you want the
puzzle pieces to snap into place. Who among us does
not want to be known? They are to be recognized in
deeds of blood: same set of jaw, squared shoulders,
reddening eye. Inheritance. The mother long since
expelled. They have made this scene with their own
hands, they almost believe they have made themselves.