She comes inshore when the moon’s illumination is phosphorescent.
She is ashore, beside the tide of life, counting crests.
She marvels at their perpetual return journey:
like one would marvel at a satellite mapping souls.
Mermaids have souls,
Naturally the progeny of the God Poseidon
and his Trident,
breathing underwater is the least of their talents.
Skills, gills, they all serve purpose.
Like nothing happens without a good reason not to.
Mermaids prefer sun-fish, lightly fried.
Sushi is good on Tuesdays.
Sirens are fond of reason.
Mermaids are pragmatic.
They know oysters grow pearls –
and that is their best talent.