he hated from a distance. Many nights
would pass before he felt Sophia’s touch.
She ladled the ashes in a gilded hutch
and took them straight to Crete, whose empire failed
to outlive the big mouth’s death. Megarans hailed
Nisos a conqueror—at least, those who
were hustling in the dotard’s retinue.
Minos had brought his brothers to their knees,
and now they filled Megara’s granaries.
There was a feast, of course, and after more
cups than a king should let his cronies pour,
Nisos deputized his purple tongue
to make up for the lock his daughter swung
around her head when she left home for good.
No, no! It can’t be we misunderstood
the oracle: for once it wasn’t obscure.
It said our citadel would not endure
the cutting of my lock. The gates gave way,
but look, the walls and towers rise today
as proud as ever while we celebrate
our would-be conquerors’ demise. How late
I stayed up all those nights, afraid I’d get
a secret haircut! Nobody should fret
about Delphi anymore! The Pythia’s lost
Apollo’s favor. Though she may exhaust
herself in cold Castalian skinny dips
the truth will never come back to her lips.
Or maybe poor Apollo’s lost his wits,
and now his limp theophany transmits
nothing but nonsense. Nisos talked too much.