I’m not pining after any boy.
I’ve told them
not to bother.
anyone whispering
doesn’t deserve the truth.
Last summer, my mother and I painted the old Victorian a blue as dark and perfect as the sea at night. The guests like it. It satisfies the same part of them that makes them want to visit the shore in the first place.
The sun’s coming through the windows by the time I’ve put everything into jars. And by the time I’ve dried off and changed, my mother is up baking galletas for guests arriving this afternoon.
I know she smells the salt on me. I can tell by the smile she’s trying to hide, like she’s proud of the living piece of the ocean she brought into the world.
everyone thinks a mermaid on land
should be haunted and lovesick.
Everyone thinks my mother should lock me inside at night so I don’t wander the ocean floor. The fact that she doesn’t is proof to them that she must be as much of a witch as I am.
no one would expect me
to climb the steps of the blue house
where a sea witch lives.
So no one would expect la Sirenita to approach our door.
anyone watching
must think I’m here
to strike a bargain,
to offer my beauty or blood
for some forbidden spell.
Anyone watching probably thinks la Sirenita is here for a love potion, to free her heart from the thrall of a handsome local boy, the son of the richest family in town.
They must think a little better of me when I let her in. They must wonder if maybe I’m nicer than they thought.
But when I close the heavy wooden door behind her, they know they won’t get to see what happens next, and they probably think less of me again.
la Bruja del Mar
asks me why
I’m here in daylight.
usually I slip
through the back
garden at night,
like I’m a guest
