Cris de Borja

Siren’s Watch

In the roar of the Twelfth Man she hears the sound of the distant, deep ocean

of her sisters, in the crashing waves, singing from the foam

crying, calling: come home, come home

the Siren peeks over the top of her tower; she whispers as rain mists over Elliott Bay,

I have emeralds to watch over.

In the shriek of jet planes descending, she recalls amorous pleas

of sailors as she pulled them into the embrace of gray death

gasping, gurgling: a breath, a breath

the Siren’s crown is a compass rose; she surveys from Leschi to Harbor Island,

I have a map to treasures.

In her clock tower, high above the streets, the Siren watches scenes

of bicycle couriers dispatched by smartphone, meal desires to fulfill

huffing, heaving: a hill, a hill

the Siren looks over the lights of Magnolia; she sighs as dusk settles,

I have a bejeweled city.

3/6/2015