Milk Glass Mermaid

She has a cute little rear end,
each bun as round as a well-worn
pencil eraser.
No empire-waisted
Jane Austen girl,
with the muslin
of her fishy nature
decorously drawn up
to just under the breasts,
her scales start as a subtle dimpling
of the thighs,
not unlike cellulite.
She is cleft.
One hand clasps the right fin-foot
as if in gym class,
stretching.
She is white all over
and cool to the touch.
Her ski-jump nose
her only imperfection,
she does not see.
No mirror in hand,
she rests with closed eyes,
contemplating nothing.
From beneath one may discover
her hollow core.
I blow across
the opening in her thigh
as if she were a flute.
Passing over the hole
in the mute glass mermaid,
my breath makes no note,
only a soughing sound.
Rebuffed, I right her,
I replace her
on the dusted mahogany.

Suzanne Keen

from Milk Glass Mermaid (Lewis Clark Press, 2006)

See Amazon.com to order.