Siren

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She’s drunk. Her hand is flapping lazily,

Her long unruly hair’s so lush it bleeds.

She’s lying naked, cigarette in hand,

Imbibing whiskey, watching Price is Right.

Her eyes don’t leave the TV screen, not once.

Contestants spin the wheel and pray for love.

I watch her legs at the end of the unmade bed,

Then look around at the empty cans and bottles,

The ashtrays filled to the brim with cigarettes,

My used condoms on the floor, odd stains.

And everywhere empty cartons of take-out food.

She stamps her cigarette out and clears her throat.

“I gotta go back to work. Can you carry me?”

She puts her arms out. I come to her side

and pick her up, cradle her in my arms.

“You’re such the gentleman,” she whispers softly.

I carry her out of the room across the lot

and towards the bright boom of the noonday waves.

I walk us into the sea, the water

so cold, shooting bolts of ice up my legs.

She kisses me then swirls with mastery

into the murk, a cursory leap into the spray,

a vicious thing with razor-sharp teeth

glistening with jeweled drops of ocean bile.

Then she is gone. A gull cries out her name.

“Return to me,” he says. “It’s been too long,

“And my sailors have grown too bold. I’m begging

you, please. Return! Ensnare them with your love!”

I walk back to the motel. It’s starting to rain.

I’m grateful for the ground beneath my feet.