After a while we got tired of
singing.
One morning out on the rocks
with not a ship in sight, we all
felt it—
a certain weariness, a malaise,
if you will. We felt it together,
sympathy having become
one of the finer aspects
of our nature. We’ve drifted apart
since those days, yet we’re happy
being remembered as impossible
to resist. The legends used to claim
we knew the future as well—all things
which shall be hereafter upon the earth,
as our song put it. Everyone only
assumed
we were beautiful. But we were, and
are,
though not unlike so many other
women now, those who promise much
less,
but let you live. It was a relief
to give up our powers willingly.
That didn’t happen often in our
world,
where the gods went on amusing
themselves
with their meddling, and the hero
plowed ahead, lashed to the mast,
dying to be tempted. Did we enjoy
the clamor
of shipwreck? The cries of the
disillusioned?
It was our job, our particular
talent.
We weren’t supposed to want anything
else.
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