and climb onto the seawall
nothing
but a silhouette
against the chilled blue.
They listen for the song coming from the curled shell around my neck. They think they can understand it, the language of echoing waves. They’re almost sure it’s whispering a warning, that I’m equal parts salt and sorceress.
They fear me the same way they shudder at ghost stories, or the sound of wind tearing through an attic.
They like fearing me.
It gives them something to do.
they look for
the silver escamas
on my body,
the moment
of them vanishing.
they all swear they’ve seen it, iridescent scales
disappearing off my legs like soap bubbles,
evaporating with the salt water.
once the scales are gone,
so are the last signs
of my mermaid tail,
the one I grow
every time
I return to the ocean
and lose every time
I leave it.
I know what they call me when they see me, walking through the dark from the beach and into town, salt water dripping down my body and onto the sidewalks.
I know
what they say
as they follow
my uneasy steps
along the seawall,