Sirens aren’t quite as divine
As sailors surmise;
Their eyes, for instance, lack an iris and pupil too,
Instead cloudy white with a vibrant iridescent film on top, like
Someone scooped their sockets clean
And popped oblong pearls in their place
To weakly gleam -
Whereas their scales by comparison
Are grey and bleak and jagged
Puzzle pieces haphazardly put and arranged like a feathered mane
Protruding in all directions as if constantly ruffled with adrenaline,
And with tar stained.
And then their voice, worn thin and hoarse from constant song, sounds like splattering glass
Shattering frantic commands to shrill, gilled sisters
Upon the hailing of a sail on the horizon:
For once that ship drifts near enough,
Delicate jaws unlock to release
A chilling symphony designed to inspire
Desire; audible longing with equal parts
Lust and love, and just a dash of madness.
It fabricates a kind of synesthesia where, to listeners,
Bony bodies fill with fertile curves
And pointy voids grow velvety soft to the touch, meanwhile
Scales recede into rosying flesh, with
Bald skulls now lush with shimmering ringlets
And sharp, hungry canines reduce into inviting smiles.
This song implants such a massive infatuation
That entranced sailors plunge to icy depths made tempting by
The invitation of a gorgeous woman’s warmth -
And they continue to beg for attention
Long after the feast has begun.