of a boy who thinks the earth
is his floor to tread, the boy
whose fingers have left
shadows on my arms.
fear is bitter salt
in my throat.
The rich family’s son pounds on the front door.
he yells not for me
but for la Bruja del Mar,
bellowing that he’s heard everything.
he knows the Sea Witch
has la Sirenita,
that she’s corrupting
his little mermaid.
He’ll make a scene from now until my mother’s next guests arrive. He’ll scare everyone off until her sea-witch daughter shows herself, and brings his little mermaid out with her.
My mother is already eyeing the knife block in the kitchen.
“you don’t have to,”
la Bruja del Mar says.
“He can yell all he wants,” my mother says.
but I am now a girl
made of knives.
La Sirenita moves as fast as a fin cutting through water. Before my mother and I can stop her, she’s throwing open the front door.
my voice builds in my throat
so that by the time
the door opens enough
to show his face,
I am already yelling
that I’m not his,
that I love
la Bruja del Mar,
