the called for blood on the altar before he went
to war, and the god expressed his discontent
by inspiring the lonely queen to crave
the very bull whom Minos wished to save.
Athea laughed, but didn’t contradict
her master’s daughter. Minos cherry-picked
the outcomes of daily skirmishes and told
his troops that they were winning and cajoled
Hupakoë, who knew the truth, to keep
his doubts to himself. Scylla didn’t weep
when she saw the Cretan mutineers
wound her beloved. Winter plied cold shears
across her lust: his face became disgusting,
yet she refused to look away, mistrusting
her new nausea. Minos barely quelled
the second mutiny, whose rebels swelled
unburied on the sand while Minos claimed
victory over Attica, then blamed
Hupakoë’s bad counsel for the war’s
uneven progress and the meager stores
of gold he’d bring to Crete. He left a few
empty ships behind. Some hair turned blue
on Scylla’s head and darkened while her king’s
famed lock faded. Winter succumbed to spring’s
impertinence, but not before it taught
Megara’s nascent queen desire brought
unneeded pain—especially desire
for men. She helped put Nisos on his pyre
and never touched his kind again, although
even Theseus wooed her. The indigo
lock on her head announced she didn’t know
all the tricks of ruling, but she heeded
Athea and Sophia’s words, which seeded
a new Megara, where the crown receded
behind the marketplace, and trade, impeded
by the old king’s laziness and greed, succeeded
in making Athens yield its Attican
preeminence. Megara’s slaves would win
their liberty, but sophists didn’t stop
chattering, and rhapsodes didn’t swap
their lyres for looms. While Theseus persisted
in sending gifts, his would-be wife insisted
on shunning him. A wedding is a dead-end,
Scylla kept saying as her dark lock reddened.