Let me tell you; dear Sailor,
The Siren is no seducer.

The Siren sings of what you want most.
meaning, you need to already know you want it,
meaning, The Siren sings out radio copy
of the pleas of your body
and your name on someone else's tongue
to change.
They cry, daily, to some patron of impermanence.

The Sailor becomes the first person to ever hear a radio.
The Sailor becomes the first person to hear his own voice outside of him.
The Sailor hears the duplication of his wants in The Siren's impermanent jaws—
God, he hears it and
dives
right
in.

The metamorphic seawater and salt,
the saline and the body and all that eukaryote material,
They make something like silver into gold.
They make something like gold out of good.
They make something like yours out of something you simply reside in.
The sea foam grips your body gentle,
takes, reverses, the weight of the mammaries on your chest.

You keep them—
they remain on your body—

The weight of your breast dare not press down onto your lungs anymore.
Doesn’t suffocate you anymore with the expectation of what you should be.
Doesn’t suffocate you with the weight of what you could be.

You finally breathe ( again. )

© CarmeFormIhn