I think of you, o Judith, as I lie awake.
I will not be a cold Lucretia, nor a saint,
her tongue cut out: I will not wrench my ecstasy
from silence or self-sacrifice. Why should I be
like anyone but gray-eyed Judith, who perfumed
herself with spice and sandalwood, and then bitumed
the sheets with monster's blood? You carried home his head
as though it were a cabbage or a loaf of bread
bought in the marketplace. I only hope the sweat
that ran into your stinging eyes did not prevent
your satisfying anger when you saw those hands,
like drunken crabs that scrambled at your skirt, release.
If woman's vengeance must be tenderer than man's --
at least, then, Sister, we're exacting to appease.