She would rather I be an incarnation, a flower
on a grave. She made my slumber rough with
sand until I swept it out of my bed.
When I was small, I brought all the worms
and the flies
and the bees
out of the water with the last bit of life
they had left.
For the ones who didn’t survive,
I gave proper burial with mermaid songs.
She never told me that mermaids cannot sing,
and she never picked up
a stick to
dig a grave with me
because I am not re-used bones
and skin
and life.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 