by Anne Stevenson
They are not what you think.
The sirens are virtuous.
Very smart. Very dedicated.
In their true form,
ladies, not women, not fish.
They abhor boring islands.
But wherever a human vortex is,
there they are at the centre.
‘Come unto me, all ye who labour
and are weary without reason
and I will give you
fresh causes of feverish concern,’
sings one, penetrating the plugged ears
of the never-at-rest.
Looking guiltily inward
from under the O, slowly swinging,
of Ought, these men are terrified –
its noose lowering –
so they witness with relief
its transformation into a mouth.
Lips. Warmth. Breath.
What is it to them
that it’s shouting, not kissing?
The ladies are professionals.
They divide and devour
professionally.
Helmsman from the helm.
Herdsman from the herd.
Though always there is one
who will not peel off and die joyfully,
in a good season
thousands can be loved, sucked,
drained, disposed of.
‘There, our laps are full,’
cry the ladies at intervals,
shaking out their skirts,
shaking the bones from their aprons.
‘And how we adored them, the drab cockatoos,
the serious darlings, the nearly salvational
whey-faced fellows of feverish concern.’
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