Doctor Mermaid
She had a doctorate in sea lettuce.
When she walked, she squelched.
The webs between her toes
stuck to the floor
and the sea dripped down her back,
puddling.
Phytoplankton shimmered in the
pools she
created.
Running her hand through her long tresses,
The
lettuce was spread,
sown into the floorboards.
When she
stepped off the podium,
finishing
her lecture,
She waded through a sea of green.
The harvest began after she left.
The Barnacle’s Penis
The barnacle has a penis
All out of
proportion
to its owner.
The blue
whale
has the largest heart in the sea.
Man has the
longest knife.
It cuts the throat of Poseidon,
filling the ocean with blood.
The hungry
sharks feed,
Growing fat on death.
And the blue whale’s heart
Breaks in
two.
While the barnacle’s penis
shrivels
to nothing.
The Boxing Day Swim
We walk along cliffs screaming with gulls,
The wind whipping my hair wild,
stiff with
salt, cheeks slapped red.
We stop to admire seals below,
Lolling in the sand,
Fat sausages at rest.
A flipper lifts, then a tail.
One moves worm-like towards the sea.
The dog at my feet barks to them,
Till reprimanded,
Huddles at my feet.
Clouds fling bitter pellets against us
And the pleading eyes whine for somewhere warmer.
Just one more glimpse of the sleeping seals,
Interrupted by the unexpected.
Figures, four of them,
Crawl from between the rocks –
Completely unencumbered.
Their pink and white bodies step into the surf.
A seal lifts its head,
Curious to see these blubberless creatures
Step into the stone-cold sea,
Their quivering buttocks, enveloped in the foam.
Shivering at the sight, I turn away
With the dog, wincing at the bite of the wind
And head home,
somewhere
warmer than Neptune’s embrace.
Thick
fog of sleep
Slowed
my steps down the dark stairs
At
the bottom –
A
patch of white, on the entry mat.
A
stain of unknown origin.
Perhaps
a lost cloud had seeped in
Or
a flurry of snow,
Or
even,
A
small, white poodle.
Curious,
I crept towards it,
Dipping
my toe into what was bright against the night.
No
substance there
But
moonlight, bathing my feet,
Blessing
them with magic.
I could see her then,
Ripe
and full, hanging in the sky
Ready
to be plucked.
She
beckoned:
Go
into the woods
Hold
hands and dance.
Call
me down.
I
am waiting.
Frances
Gaudiano - Has recently had poems published in Last Stanza, Witches and Pagans and a short story
in Mythulu. Last year, Veneficia Press published her novel - The Listener |
Veneficia (veneficiapublications.com). Her non-fiction work includes several
articles for the veterinary press and a textbook on Veterinary Dermatology.
Her ‘day job’ is as a veterinary nurse, a profession she has enjoyed for nearly
thirty years. Prior to becoming a veterinary nurse, Frances earned her M.A. in
Dramatic Literature from the University of California at Santa Barbara. She worked in theatre as a stage manager in England, California and Indonesia. She also briefly taught school but soon realised that animals are much easier to
work with than children. Currently, Frances resides in Cornwall, England – a
beautiful, dramatic place where you can occasionally swim with a seal.
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