The Mermaid's Tale

From the taffrail, pale peeling faces, blue salt-raw gazes

spelt newfound fury, disgust at her daring,

a re-evaluation—they didn’t see that coming…

Once upon a time the sea witch was her devil,

lurking in the depths of the ocean, brewing potions.

But what hellish creatures, humans,

that handsome prince and his crewmen.

Once upon a time her greatest desire

then she grew older, and they grew bolder,

started sailing, started claiming, claimed her waters,

lacing them with scarlet. Hunted her kin for sport.

And so the sea witch became her last resort.

A sunken graveyard littered with bone

and at its heart a rotting throne.

You’re driftwood, my dear, the sea witch had leered.

Seafoam, no home, not yet choiceless but already voiceless,

the cost for revenge? On knife blades you’ll tread.

Native, they said when they fished her from the water, the storm must have caught her.

Exotic, they agreed of her brown shapely legs, so she tilted her head

quietly. Smiled at their handsome prince adoringly.

Soon alone, lantern burned low, she sang him asleep,

her language her own. Warm-blooded, she thought, her hand staining red,

eyes fixed to the wall above his bed. The prized trophy displayed:

the tail of a little mermaid.

…And they fancied themselves executioners

tossing her overboard

into waters where she had learnt to swim.