or what she is. No matter: Scylla does
what others do. Her much diminished brain
advises her to burrow along the stain
left by the dropping tide, where surf will sizzle,
not in the silent murk the foam won’t grizzle.
She hides at noon, but night foments an acute
hunger for turtle eggs and mollusk fruit.
She loves her comrades, but can’t comprehend
what clicking claws and gastric teeth portend.
Megara’s burning elicits no lament
or cheer. She can’t recall what orange meant.
Her eyes take in the brightness and its wet
likeness. A seagull spots her silhouette.