The Siren's Last Song

What a lucky lassie you are, doll.
Her bruises are shaped by the sea,
wounds bound to last a fortnight.

The loom is her solace; ivory sails soiled with
old cigars, stained with drunk whispers and gin.
What a lucky lassie. You are a doll

to them, a porcelain hollow. They do not
tread carefully over that glass hearts’
wounds; bound to last. A fortnight,

she spent, as a saint on her knees,
praying for something, but she hadn't a clue
what. A lucky lassie you are. Doll-

ish eyes hauled from the sea. An open
carcass now a home for infidelity. Flesh stitched.
Wound’s bound. To last a fortnight

would be a miracle, enough to turn those sea blubber
fins to feathers; Persophone last comfort.

What a lucky lassie you are, doll.
Wounds bound to last a fortnight.