turn to the night's last sirena: scented flesh, neoned souls by the bar. mine is a gently rocking boat while i nurse a quiet storm on my shore. from the glass tank i emerge, my skin peeling off the edge, to piercing lust in the men's eyes.
i'm the girl they cannot buy.
every night i do my swirling dance in water, until the men drape their arms over girls smuggled from across the border & our owner counts his money at the cashier. run the comb through my wet pink wig. hear it smack to the wild, cluttered breakage before the mirror.
in the dressing room i slip out of my tail & sing the mermaid song:
our waves would never birth the pod of love
when what's true inside us can only plunder
drink, before darkness withers into morning
we've been whores since Empress Dowager
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