to the beached ships. He learned what battlefields
had somehow failed to teach him: panic yields
an energy that valor cannot match.
The Cretans climbed the gunwales and raced to snatch
the oars, as if rowing were a newfound lust.
Though dazzling spoils were waiting in the dust
drizzled on Megara by the drop
of its high gates, no hoard on earth could stop
the Cretans from retreating. Panic led
them through the moonless night. The armada fled
like flies who scatter from the carrion crow
when the cat leaps. The face, now indigo,
that once glowed orange, lay in Scylla’s lap.
Weeping, she peered beyond the tent’s torn flap
and wailed the Cretans this apostrophe:
How dare you leave him here! How dare you flee!
This man’s your king! You’ll never get to Crete
after such treachery. No way to treat
a son of Zeus! Your cowardly revolt—
so dumb it’s brave: you’ll feel the thunderbolt!
Their rowing was unsynchronized, but loud
enough to muffle her. The Cretans ploughed
ephemeral furrows on a brackish field
of waves no sooner scarred than healed
while the shameless blush adorning
her beloved’s new pallor announced the morning.
She saw old Nisos and his retinue
haloed in dust approach the tent. She drew
the shard from her girdle. Zeus, forgive the fool
who loved your son to death. These eyes were cruel
to me and him and you. Forgive me, Zeus.
And when my work is done, forgive the abuse
your son will suffer at my people’s hands.
My brain refuses what my heart commands.
I couldn’t stop them if I were alive.
Scylla raised the shard, prepared to drive
it through her neck, which hardened at the touch.
Six fingers disappeared. She couldn’t clutch
that tool, which bounced off Minos, and her shanks
tapered while six new legs burst from her flanks.
Her eyeballs multiplied their lenses, rose
on stalks, and lost the ability to close,
but blinking wasn’t her priority:
Scylla could see the city and the sea
and didn’t need to move her neckless head.
As Nisos neared her, Scylla shed
everything at his memory’s command.