^{(after Ros Seamark)}

Let me be clear: no sea witch would want me like this. My larynx barnacled & slick with desire. She’d look me over; flex her tentacles. I’ve suckled enough brine to know how this ends. Wishes are for girls with bodies pure enough to sacrifice. Painless. Elegant. Reliable as currency. Would that I were so unsunk. Somewhere, another girl is wed to my longing. I’m still choking back seafoam when the nurse calls my name.

A family spots their brother sleepwalking 
in a narrow hallway. He is cooking in his dreams, 
pretending chef, moving around a kitchen, 
screaming humbug at dried bits 
of onion powder in a spice container, and so
takes off to the grocery store,

his hands miming a driver’s 
who is having a heartfelt
conversation with a passenger
which could be any one of them. 
They are careful not to wake him 
for fear of triggering a heart attack 
or a fall down the stairs.

He bares his teeth which means he is now
a canine, most likely a pit bull; his eyes
go dark as a chimney, so he hums a little 
Scottish ballad about time.

They hope he finds his way back.
They tire of circling him and think, by all means,
continue your travels in your cardboard world. 
His wife feels ever his value
and grabs their hands and shifts when he shifts
and falls when he falls.