in his palm, likely to be blown away
by the next gust. He milked his pride in speech:
Men, those cowards who said we’d leave this beach
without the vengeance that we fought so long
to take on Megara—look, I proved them wrong!
And all the ones back home who laughed when I
said I would make it mine! We’ll occupy
this town within the hour, and you’ll be
so busy proving its hostility
to Minos was unwise, you won’t have time
to appreciate exactly how sublime
a day this is: the world has never known
triumph as great as mine! I stand alone:
what hero’s or what god’s achievements could
compare. . . ? What if the gods had not withstood
the giants’ rising, and Enkelados
had made Athena’s head-sprung head emboss
his shield, and Thoas had garotted all
the Fates, and Mimas made Hephaestus crawl
into his forge and melt. . . . Apollo sat
on top of Scylla’s tower while the fat
conqueror ranted and a rare night sweat
darkened his orange till his palms were wet.
The purple hairs, a coiling grid, entwined
themselves into a serpent and refined
their keratin to grow the fangs that sped
venom through blood that wished it could stay red.
He yelped and flung the serpent, which retreated
from the torches while the gift it just secreted
remained, and Scylla saw her beloved’s arm
turn purple. Minos blamed her for the harm
her doom lock did him, and before he died
his only wish: to kill his would-be bride.
Lifting his sword, however, was an act
too great for greatness. As the venom tracked
his capillaries, far too weak to kill
anyone, Minos muttered Scyll, Scyll, Scyll. . . .