Sailor's Synesthesia

Sailor’s Synesthesia

 

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.