Kristy Bowen Mermaids You are useless women, voiceless, liked hooked fish, salted tongues athrall with love, pale arms forever reaching for the ever distant line of shore, stillborn and covetous. You've watched them in their tiny house gray and plain against the sand, seen the wife wash rags on the rocks, the routine of her day, hope itself, flowing in and out with every tide. Or him, back from the catch, the rough of his hands, sea-wild and dark, cool against her cheek, The ropes of his arms the compass of his heart ever faithful, pointing his return. So you, too, have arranged your little rooms neat and silent among the coral and rocks, washed your shells and tools, cultivated weeds and sea glass, nested in the bough of a sunken ship drunk on memory among the blue shadows, awaiting his return. Days now, years even, you remain quiet in your little cave, the dishes shattered, furniture scattered the grave of desire dark and familiar.