The Sirens
In Plato’s Republic, heaven
was theirs, golden rotations in a golden time.
Ulysses knew the song, and in it
the promise of knowledge of all things—
in the rope, in the sailor’s knot
made fast
against the frequency of everything he wanted,
the sweet somnambulance ending on the rocks.
Centuries after, the corpse of one
washed up along the shore, the face nearly human,
grey torso tapering to a faded iridescence.
Strabo the geographer saw her tomb, noting
ceremonies in her memory included
youths vaulting, and races by torch light.
Bring desire, they said, its urgency
and steep precision, bring memory and the promise of all
things.
In 1403, in the Netherlands, one appeared
through an opening in an earthen dyke.
Her manner was confused, and she was without language.
Later, she was taught to weave,
and lived on there in Haarlem until she died.
In January’s flat light,
looking seaward, she called to salt, its deepest binding,
her voice
many voices, cut-glass above tidal grasses, and the waves
breaking.
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