I mean each one of you to play a part
—Thomas Kyd, The Spanish Tragedy
Big Man will play a king, he fits the part, his father all swaggering before him. A small woman comes in feathers for her cue, not knowing the scene eats birds. A few children leap through like sheep but we have no hillside, only cardboard refinery, stage left. They hide deep in its gloamy sulk. Would you have us play a tragedy in which we know the words unholy? They come to our mouths formed and ready, like a salute, a march of men, that brittle dance they’ve formed in the front. The legs lift together, so clean, they are all clean and such men as they twirl their rifles gentle in their hands. More swivel behind, uniform all over the set—no men but guns, in shining dark rotation, gorgeous, bringing down the house.