The Mermaid Takes Issue with the Fable
I came in the tavern totally naked, that's true.
And those drunk men inside: began to spit.
I was from the sea and I knew a thing, or two.
Yes, yes, a mermaid, but I had not lost my way.
The insults bounced off my gleaming scales.
Obscenities reflected in my tawny breasts.
Oh, I know tears, but on this we agree: I did not weep tears.
I know clothes, and I did not have clothes.
They blackened me with burnt corks and cigarette stubs
and rolled around laughing on the tavern floor, yes.
I did not speak because they would not have listened.
My eyes were the colour of close hatred.
My arms made of white diamonds.
My lips moved, a whisper, in light of the anemone
darts, white threads centered and caught by each gaping mouth.
Entering the sea I was rinsed
clear like an empty mug of beer.
And without looking I swam,
swam towards fullness, swam towards life.
An Eye on New Zealand's Bird
A virtue, yes, not quite
the fifth ranking
angel, yet close;
its velocity a wave,
reflects, bends back.
I seek beauty
through journeys
by air or water, corridor
and duct. A day's
travel brings the elapse
of radar, its echoes
from unknown origin.
I risk collation in parallel
passages, and note
elements in piano keys:
chords, pitch, tone. I hazard
to expose symbol
and node. What's worse,
and more effective?
The rip of a seaplane,
or the white-breasted
water hen, rare and flightless.