Those singing mermaids–
I want to tell him I have heard them too,
weaving whispers for dolphin ears
where we can’t live, but still crave
a cradle of water and salt, not unlike
where we first learned the mechanics of breath.
Their sea-floor canticle was never spun
for sailors or anything over the waves,
secret and driving dreams
that sometimes I am weightless in,
openarmed in flight similar to swimming.
I always wake before I remember how
to land, gravity not the pull in those dreams,
but fear. The feel is as familiar
as sunlight; memory laid down
reptilian, where instinct sleeps:
the things babies know
but have no words to tell us.