Ashore

I sometimes wonder
whether I chose this body
in some celestial place, a lifetime ago
did I say: this one.
the red hair
the green eyes
the tall
the lean
the pale
I sometimes wonder
whether I did not make some grave
mistake.

should I not have been half-fish?
I have heard jokes about mermaids --
"How do they fuck?"
and what sweet relief it would bring
to throw a spear
and whisper to a dying man,
"We don't."

what joy to feel no burn, no thrust, no blood
no unbidden fingers prodding, searching
nothing to guard
nothing to give away
only breasts the armored gray of shark's hide
and scaled, unbroken muscle
stretching down from waist to fin:
a weapon made to thrash, to hunt
to tear and defend
and the only sultry part of me a lying voice --
a lure to lustful sailors, pulling hungry ears to ghastly ends
bringing vengeance to the women they have left ashore
with hearts and stockings ripped

I sometimes wonder
standing on the cliffs and watching tides roll by
whether I were not better served by saltwater
whether this flesh is too soft
whether I am doomed
to be forever penetrable and warm
no spears to throw, no deadly tail
only curves of cream and blush
with cracks and fissures
into which the poison may seep