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The Siren and the Dandelion

Drip, drip in the divots,

Rivulets in the stone,

A carving in Mother Earth

Where the black light shone,

Reveals a branching terrace

And an arch of bone;

The marked aquatic welcome to

An umber under-throne.

In a pool of darkened water

Lurks a darker tapestry

Of iridescent scales and

Bloodied needle teeth,

Shredded sailor corpses

Portend a selkie’s fury;

Where sacrilege meets silt

Lies her cemetery.

On the shoreline by the water

Waits a silent army

Of far-reaching pappus

To which all will cede,

For the ever-underrated

Yellow posies

Will suffocate the wicked;

Death by the demonweed.

The dandelion, thought delicate

Like a broken quill,

Spreads her silent power

As though at will,

And the siren, thought insensate,

Like an ancient squall,

Can be a soft, poison flower

Luring fleeting thralls.

But their tempers are abated

By nature’s amnesty,

Kept away from the bedeviled,

Fate’s gentle mercy,

Thus where the water meets the soil,

And the roots meet the sea, and

Where the seed-head meets the scale—

There—waits a quiet cavalry.


© 2022 Damon Barret Roe. All Rights Reserved.


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