DUYONG 2

You are the dreaming girl who walks outside of herself, into tidelands’ star jasmine vine weaving, dripping sea spray. The air pulls your tiny feet, and you wiggle bare toes in the cool sand.

 

You are the rosy-faced girl who walks outside of herself. Tongues of moonlight penetrate banana leaf and coconut palm canopies. Chirping above you, dragonflies buzz and flit, deep magenta fire. Golden leaf birds and fairy bluebirds call you back to your father. You are the girl who does not heed her father’s chirping messengers.

 

You listen to the story of branches, dipping their oversweet pink fruit into the swelling sea, touching smoothed wet stone. Wading waist-deep past the old men’s boats, you tangle your mangrove fingers in the thick black ropes of your hair. You are the girl sloughing off dampened skin, blooming jade green, wild silken tendrils.

 

You remember your father’s faint once upon a time. Something about danger. Something about the water who appears as a woman before you. She takes your hand, and your new skin ripens midnight violet. You are the girl whose new tail mimics a silver slicing razor.