Sometimes still
like light I catch
the mermaids’ singing
swimming back to me,
a certain strain on the air.
They sing for the hell of it.
The pure, fresh hell.
Snow on the inconsolable shore.
Somehow still,
half a person later,
I know all the words.
Or would, were there words
to the chorus the mermaids,
who are angels, my sisters, make.
I changed my face
but my face was still there:
neither innocent nor gay
nor heartless.
I lean out, no longer dangerously,
and answer them.
Copyright © 2026 by Jameson Fitzpatrick. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on August 10, 2026, by the Academy of American Poets.
