the Cretans to Megara’s crumbled gates,
which could not keep the outsiders out. The Fates,
or unborn fingers tapping naphtha mice,
taught Nisos even he could give up vice.
He chastely kissed his catamites goodbye
and let them lick the cooling alkali
pooling the tondo, where they now could see
Herakles’ shield, on which the swollen knee,
dripping nostril, bloodied green right cheek,
and curling fingernails of Akhlys wreak
fear in fearless Hera, who desires
help from the starving giggler, who perspires
muddy tears while pointing out the blooms
that dried and crushed and boiled will play the neumes
that turn the nurses’ lullabies to brays.
The marks of nigh starvation did not faze
the conquerors, whose oaths to Aphrodite
wouldn’t disturb their voyage home. The mighty
must want to want what wisdom won’t award.
The Cretans carried many spoils aboard
their ships, and two bricks quarried from Apollo’s
tower (whose hiatus harbored swallows
after the rain transformed Megara’s ash
into the mud their stunted beaks could mash
with grass and carry to the humming corners)
propped up the bier, around which idle mourners
kept Minos company the way to Crete,
a victory voyage that felt like a defeat.
The Cretan keel beneath the coffin gashed
the innocent water: its green blueness flashed
white accusations.

Hupakoë had time to think how best