That’s what’ll bring me to bed with my love!
Night, who suckles our sorrows, dropped
the silent hours when sleep begins
to drink the hearts the day melted.
She plucked a shard off Apollo’s tower.
Nisos was snoring when Scylla snuck
to his bedside and plundered the purple lock.
Nisos was snoring when Scylla snuck
away without waking his weary boyfriends.
Megara shivered, and the gates collapsed.
The sentinels saw her twirling
the purple lock through the pouring dust,
and they stuttered Scylla, Scyll-Scyll-Scyll-Scyll
as she crossed over to the Cretan camp.
But one of them shook off the shock of that sight
and shot an arrow, shaving the side
of her neck, whose blood embellished her treason.
The Cretans conveyed her to King Minos.
His palms dangled puny digits.
His rigid hair hailed the limp
lock she brought him. Love is evil.
My name is Scylla. You know my father.
I bring you his hope, our household gods,
our whole kingdom—here it is: take it!
If I fetched you his head, it would hurt the old man
less, sweet Minos, than the loss of this lock.
I seek no reward . . . except you.
She kneeled and lifted the lock toward him.