Her Music Was Not Meant for Me
Marisca Pichette
She told me she was no longer
a siren, told me now
to call her banshee.
I asked: why change from something
beautiful, our mysteries well-earned,
fear hard-won
to such a dull and ugly
ghost?
She looked at me for days
in moonlight and darkness
until I realized
my words deserved nothing
from her song.
A month later I visit
her rock now scraped clean
of barnacles, covered fresh
in tatted lace.
I see her:
face free of makeup,
chest released from corsets rigid
with whale bones.
Tangled, pale,
baring her scars to the moon
she is realer than she ever was
before.
I see now:
she was never a siren.
Her voice was never meant
for singing
and in all our years
I never listened, never heard
how under her melody lodged
a scream.