Once, I was a mermaid with other mermaids, 
decked out and parading down the boardwalk. 
My gown trailed me, a tail of cerulean, my 
cheeks the color the sky glistens when 
it strikes the ocean. 
 
Early that morning, the day the parade 
flooded the streets with sea wreckage 
and freaks, with connoisseurs, my 
lover finished painting on my face. 
His hat leaned sideways, 
 
parrot feathers brassy as beetle wings 
staining his hair. Two women dressed 
as crabs scuttled down the lane before us. 
My mouth blew bubbles, small tender 
ohs exploding. 
 
Seven moves later, three states: the gown 
still hangs in the folds of my closet. When 
I take it out, my soul, like some glass weight 
washed on the sand, shivers. A great breath 
of wind. Often, 
 
I see a dark fedora tumbling past me 
to break against the waves. Often, I see 
mermaids trailing riotous hair, their 
mouths unmoved by pity or the dark 
heart of the sea.