who Scylla was. But abridged brains
don’t forbid her to burrow: she favors the foreshore,
where the surf sizzles, not the silent bottom.
She hides at noon. The night hatches
a tart craving for turtle eggs.
She loves her comrades but can’t learn
the clicking language their claws scribble.
One night Megara nourished flames,
but she can’t remember the meaning of orange.
By siege-candle, a seagull eyes her.