CAMELOT FANTASIES

The Mermaids




By  Marianne Boruch   


The spell is a mouth’s

perilous-o as they dark circle the boats in

their most resplendent pliable armor.


The concept fish aligning with girl

or love with death

to bring down men at sea, temptation


confused into offering,

the mismatch of like plus unlike

really likes, straight to rock bottom.


No equation has ever been this badass.

It’s the men who will enter the spell

so far into exhaustion as weather, as waves,


the tide pulling toward if, letting go then

over the whale road in the company of

the dolphin, the only other animal, I’m told,


who can do it solely for pleasure. It.

You know what I mean. The lower half

aglitter, the top half brainy as beautiful


is sometimes, murderous lovelies, their plotting

and resolve and why not

get these guys good, the lechers.


To see at all in the whirling, to hear

what anyone might

in wind roar and faint whistle — 


don’t worry about girls shrewd

as whimsy, legend-tough

to the core. Don’t. But it’s


their spell too, isn’t it? Locked there.

Aligned with singing, dazzle

razor-blackened green. Not that they


miss what human is like or know any end

to waters half born to, from where

they look up.


Men in boats, so sick of the journey.

Men gone stupid with blue,

with vast, with gazing over and away


the whole time until same to same-old to

now they’re mean. After that, small.

Out there, the expanse. In here,


the expanse. The men look down. Aching

misalignment — gorgeous

lure that hides its hook steely sweet


to o my god, little fool’s breath

triumphant, all the way under and am I

not deserving?