The Mermaid Sets the Story Straight

by Debra Cash

Hans lied. Or he neglected to mention

that the prince had fallen for mermaids before

before he fell into the drink during a thunderstorm.

I had seen him ogling us from the shore,

the green scales of my sisters' plump breasts,

wondering what was underneath the wrapping.

And in the state museum, he passed his hand

over the worn, painted breasts of ship figureheads

under the guise of a history lesson.

Hans lied because this was a man

from the Odense slums

who fawned over Dickens

who wanted to be a Poet from the time he was young

who thought he would get invited to soirees and salons

if he wore silly clothes and spoke with a Danish accent.

Hans lied. He simply couldn't imagine

I would want to shed the blubbery tail

dragging behind me like a torn bridal gown,

that I would prefer to stand on my own two feet

and walk on my own, love or no love.

Hans lied. He didn't know the prince was just an excuse

for me to change my life, to stop being a sister, a daughter.

He was right about the knives; even masochistic Hans

knew it hurts to walk alone even when the walk is downhill,

even when you know where you are going.

But it would have hurt my pride even more to stay,

modeling for those wooden women who face into the gale

steered by princes and merchants and pirates.

Of course I have a soul.

The foam of heaven, you know, is not that different

from the foam seething at the water's edge.