Mermaid à la Mer

As if a child has played with pieces of dirty
cotton and dumped them in the sky's playground.

As if the sun, an orange drawn by the child,
is peeling itself into the sea, spilling its juice here

and there. This mermaid I know can head
for the sea anytime with a swimsuit and a camera.

The rest fades like newsprint in the sun.
If she could invent a plane that runs on beauty, she

would visit the Seven Seas. The ripples that clothe
her naked thighs with their watery embrace take

the wrong side of her life away, and fill its cleavages.
Time stops for her with the softness of the sand.

And when her eyes defy the horizon's fading coin,
a light recently lost burns again in her. Sensual sounds

mark the quick passing of the hours. Chain on bosom.
Hoop earrings in breeze. Bracelet on wrist. Of course,

she knows about sea monsters. Buried in the sand,
her strong knees have knelt enough in ebbs and flows.

Her seductive silhouette bettering the curves of the most
well-formed petals flirts with the sea. And then a desk.

A job. A window. Syrupiness of brine. Swimsuit and
camera. The playground of the sky's living reflection.

Amit Parmessur, 39, lives in Quatre-Bornes, Mauritius, where he spent his adolescence hating poetry before falling in love with its beauty. His poems have appeared in over 165 magazines, inclduing WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Hobo Camp Review, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He is a two-time Pushcart Prize and two-time Best of the Web nominee.

Find more by Amit Parmessur in the Author Index.