10. Oxen of Helios.

Yes, we know about prohibited meat, but we don't
really know until it writhes and bellows and leaps off
the spit. Mad cows. These cattle strike a disease in
the brain deeper than sunstroke. The sun had seemed
benign. Now flame shoots along the nerves, spasms into
sparklers, and hunger turns to horror. We thought we
had eaten fire. Our leader slept.

11. Eumaios' Hospitality.

A small, dark hovel can contain a monumental light.
It is still hard to see in the dark. Of the two men
crouching, which is noble? Both? Neither? The past
translates into the future, but in an unrecognizable
dialect: all the vowels are changed. You can eat and
sleep in trust, and not be known. Childhood was
fortunate and can be lost. The trees spring back in
awe.

12. Helen's Divination.

She knows more than she should. After all those
years, she stands straight, a gash of sunlight, yet
remains cold, though the beam she directs into the
hearts of others reveals more pleats and hollows than
anatomists could name. Her own heart is practiced,
tired of its practices, and unstoppable. The eagle
lumbers past with the plundered goose. She knows more
than she wants, she sees more than she wants to see of
tawdry mortal repetitious rapacity and longing for
anesthesia. Which she supplies, in small doses. At
cost.