Mermaid

by Radian Hong

I slip through the cracked door,
nose brushing the wood.
You left it open for the cat,
I know. Your mouth is open like an anemone.
Your phone rests on your chest
under your hand
like something your god gave you.
You are a mother,
that is to say, a landscape.
Where your body ends
and the blankets begin
is a secret. That is to say,
when I hold your hand and map
the scarred rocks of your knuckles
I know. You get up suddenly
and drive us out west,
headlights slicing the soft night.
When you open the car doors
at a moonlit beach,
take us into the trembling waves,
and tell us how sailors mistook
the jagged rocks for mermaids,
I know. The wet hem of your dress
dragging in the sand.
The numb fingertip
where you sliced your nerve as a girl
digging into my palm. Always
searching. I know your god
and my god are not the same.
I know that when you fall silent
as a broken watch
you are somewhere else.
That is to say, with the mermaids.
And the ocean shivers again,
but this time with something like
            delight.

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