poem: debora greger, "My First Mermaid"
I read this in a poetry anthology and loved it; it's been sticking with me. It may be time for a poetry prompt post soon, friends- who's in?
My First Mermaid
I
In Florida, where these things can happen,
we stopped at the last roadside attraction.
Into a small theater decorated with mold,
we descended. Behind a curtain sagging like seaweed,
a wall of glass held back a wall of water.
And there in the springs, a woman wearing bikini top
and Lycra fish tail held an air hose to her lips
like a microphone. What was she waiting for?
Into the great open bowl of the springs,
a few fish drifted. They looked at the two of us.
They shook their heads and their whole bodies rippled.
Air bubbles shimmered in the filtered Florida sun,
each a silver O racing to the surface to break.
We'd missed the day an unscripted underwater blimp
of a manatee wobbled into view. The gray, whiskered lard
of a sea cow or the young woman who sang -
lip-synched, rather - some forgettable song,
her lipstick waterproof: which was the real mermaid?
II
Given the weight of water, nothing happens fast
to a mermaid, whether it's love or loss.
Not like the landlocked life, I wanted to warn her.
But here came a prince in street clothes,
trying to think thoughts that were heavy enough
to make himself sink to her level. His shirt ballooned,
a man made not into merman but to manatee.
Yet, in the small eternity it took for him
to grasp her slippery flipper, for her to find
his more awkward human ankle, and then
for them to turn, head over each other's heels -
a ring rolling away too beautifully to catch -
they lived happily ever after.
Until one of them had to stop for breath.
Debora Greger
The Kenyon Review
New Series, Volume XXVII Number 4
Fall 2005
My First Mermaid
I
In Florida, where these things can happen,
we stopped at the last roadside attraction.
Into a small theater decorated with mold,
we descended. Behind a curtain sagging like seaweed,
a wall of glass held back a wall of water.
And there in the springs, a woman wearing bikini top
and Lycra fish tail held an air hose to her lips
like a microphone. What was she waiting for?
Into the great open bowl of the springs,
a few fish drifted. They looked at the two of us.
They shook their heads and their whole bodies rippled.
Air bubbles shimmered in the filtered Florida sun,
each a silver O racing to the surface to break.
We'd missed the day an unscripted underwater blimp
of a manatee wobbled into view. The gray, whiskered lard
of a sea cow or the young woman who sang -
lip-synched, rather - some forgettable song,
her lipstick waterproof: which was the real mermaid?
II
Given the weight of water, nothing happens fast
to a mermaid, whether it's love or loss.
Not like the landlocked life, I wanted to warn her.
But here came a prince in street clothes,
trying to think thoughts that were heavy enough
to make himself sink to her level. His shirt ballooned,
a man made not into merman but to manatee.
Yet, in the small eternity it took for him
to grasp her slippery flipper, for her to find
his more awkward human ankle, and then
for them to turn, head over each other's heels -
a ring rolling away too beautifully to catch -
they lived happily ever after.
Until one of them had to stop for breath.
Debora Greger
The Kenyon Review
New Series, Volume XXVII Number 4
Fall 2005