though she couldn’t remember why she cared so much.
Nisos was weeping: What god did this
to my only child? She chopped off my lock
and ran to Minos. But she must’ve had reasons.
Maybe no reasons. Did the Muses compel her?
I never invoked divine vengeance.
My poor Scylla! She pinched his finger,
and he spun in pain, splashing her shell
against the breastplate of the guard beside him.
The filicide fell on his face
and salted the sand. When his swoon ended,
the guards carried their king home,
where he watched her melt in a miniature pyre,
and dispatched the ashes to Athens, where
their ancestors lay. Left on the beach,
Minos began gathering flies.
Nisos wondered, What’s the worst
we can do to this loser? Look at him, almost
splitting his breastplate! Spent a half-year
of siege eating! And his skin—I’ve never
seen a person with a purple face.
His favorite catamite, Sophia, advised him:
Bury Minos with minimal pomp,
but never damage his nasty body.
You can’t afford to offend his father.