daring the sea-breeze to disseminate it.
Minos was happy: Men, we have proved
our enemies wrong. And those envious Cretans—
not the real Cretans, though they crowd our homeland—
the ones who laughed when I said this city would be mine!
In a moment, you’ll gouge Megara’s streets.
And you’ll be too busy burning and stealing
to appreciate how privileged you are:
the world has never witnessed a victory
greater than mine! Imagine that the giants
had conquered the gods—that Enkelados
had buried Athena, that Thoas had strangled
the Fates, that Mimas had melted Hephaestus
in his own forge, that Porphyrion. . . .
While Minos preened, Apollo listened,
poised on the tower the princess had deserted.
The purple hairs plaited themselves,
a coiling grid with keratin fangs.
The lock bit Minos, delivered its venom,
and scurried outside. Scylla saw his arm
turning purple in the perfumed torchlight.
Minos was angry. He meant to kill her
and lurched forward, but lifting a sword
was impossible. His purple mouth
mumbled, Scylla, Scyll-Scyll-Scyll-Scyll!