The neighbors stopped byafter walking their greyhounds,said the mermaidswere asking for you again.Smiling, I shut the door.I won’t intrude on your privacy;I trust you implicitly. I don’t needto know all you discusswith scaled & silk-hairedwomen who prop themselveson the cement curvature of fountains,breasts to the sun—heads tilted backlike Bernini’s St. Theresa in Rome,where other fountain mermaidsbask in the same August heatbut speak Italian, bartering with localsfor goods in exchange for blessings.These new saints caused such a ruckusthe Pope himself made a special tripdown the road to converse with themabout their dealings, gifting themwith rosaries, & carrying onabout the connection betweenorthodox theology & aquatic life:Christ’s love blotting out sinthe way the ocean dilutes everything.While that’s true, I can’t help feelingthe curve of a bowlwe may be trapped in,dreaming of an ocean—unless that’s the sort of thingthat makes you anxious:wide-open waters.Because it reminds you of
Jaws.A death & fate, gruesome & goryas hell: the wide open mouththat leads out of whatever this is.I love you. & want to draw you outof any & all proximityto that mouth, & to kiss yours,whisper in your earthat the mermaids are not in some basement,but in the fountain off the Plaza, again.Singing for you,& when they aren’t,they’re watching videos onlinesome citizens show themof what our world will be likein 50 years, if you don’t build an arcmade of words to cradle us& the beloved creatures out of the mouthof the oncoming storm,& make it look easy. ____
Micah Ruelle is a Midwestern poet living in the Austin area.
