Rekindling a lust for oarlocks
and giving no thought to Megara’s spoils,
the Cretans were quick in climbing the gunwales.
The ships dispersed like a shroud of flies
on a carrion crow when the cat pounces.
Scylla lifted her beloved’s head
in her lap and wept. Why do the gods
allow this to happen? How can you flee,
you fucking losers, and leave Minos
where anyone too weak to beat him
when he held a spear can sport with his body?
Remember, cowards, Minos is your king!
But her pleas couldn’t compete with the splashes
of the oar-strokes. Even orange
left her beloved as his locks whitened.
At dawn she watched her wobbly father
walk toward the tent with his well-armed boyfriends.
She remembered the shard sheathed in her girdle.
Zeus, forgive me! My desire has cost
your son his life. I looked too long.
I’d prefer to live to perform the rites
this king is due, but my death will prevent them.
Zeus, I can’t bear begging you to save me.
Just forgive me for what Megarans will do
to this helpless hero! She held the shard
to her neck, which hardened, hampering the edge.
When her fingers contracted to four, she dropped it.
Her legs, which were wrapped around Minos,
couldn’t unbend, but to compensate
for rigor, six new ones arose from her flanks.
She lost her lashes and lids when her eyes
multiplied lenses and lengthened, so Scylla
could gaze at the sea and Megara together
without turning. Her entire body
had finished its reduction before Nisos
was close enough to capture it.