is both heavy and intangible.
Easy in their enormous house,
they sing and sailors fall.
What do they want with me, a woman,
surely a sister of sorts?
The mother of mermaids
is the moon, and though all her tears have settled on them,
She still commands.
They have everything except authority.
The sirens smile
and beckon me down to join them--
It is a casual cruelty when they invite, saying,
"Please sing with us, sister,
Sing like anything, the way you've always longed to;
it won't kill you."
(It is the instinct to breathe again, after,
For (Non--)Fireblossom Friday with Hedgewitch, at Real Toads.
Image: Moonrise, Beaumarais by Clarice Beckett.