Mágisses

Remember? When great-grandmother knelt at the foot of your bed, locked the doors and rocked the frame back and forth like Scylla pushed waves to wreck ships and ground sailors?

Remember? When she stood behind you cleaning the flesh off seashells and whispering something the medium couldn't quite understand?

In the quiet of the avli, Circe whispers from no physical origin, Maybe I was your great-grandmother her rage over bones forced into boxes, displaced from their mountainside soil, exiled to the ossuary—a remote island to spend her mortal borderland turning men into the pigs they were deep down.