Mermaid

I’m all washed up,

dumped by the tide

in a tangle of seaweed,

my hair matted and stiff with salt,

barnacles clinging to my bare breasts,

my tail entangled

in a fisherman’s line, his hook

embedded deep like a tick.

I’m bleeding, briny,

smelling of fish.

Wish I had a mirror and a comb

but there’s nothing in

the flotsam on this beach

but plastic bags and beer cans.

I’ll have to start singing,

lure me an old sea-dog

to come and rescue me,

though my voice is rusty

since I haven’t talked to a soul all day

and I’m thirsty, so thirsty.

I’ve lost my home.

My beautiful youth

faded a long time ago,

I’ve not even the inclination to go on,

battered by the sea,

which tries to drag me back

with every new tide.

It’s bleak, on my own on this rock.

Not a good time to be a mermaid.

I’m too old to be postmodern,

too wily to be Disneyland,

too tired to be ironic.

Please don’t put me

in a zoo,

in your phone,

in the papers,

my hair’s all thin and grey,

I’ve lost my teeth,

my breasts flap like deflated balloons,

my tail is dried out and sore,

and it’s spread, and spread, and spread.