The Siren's Lament

The first time I saw you,
they had tied you to the mast
and you were raving like a sun-struck lunatic.
Your face was red, and you were sweating,
stripped to the waist
like a slave or a lover.

I called out to you.
I couldn't help it.
I cried loneliness, and longing,
and lust.

I sang
as though I'd sing you free,
sing you safe,
sing you to me. 

You strained against the ropes
like a madman. The ropes knew better, biting
indifferently into your flesh. I saw
the red drops welling up
on your slick, sunburnt skin.
You roared in pain, and frustrated desire,
and I was almost close enough to touch you
but I could only watch

from my sexless perch
on the salty cliffs of solitude.

It was never my choice
to sing such deadly love songs,
such final lullabies.
It isn't my fault
that I was made this way,
that every time I weep
or speak a wish,
men die
before I finish talking.

I'd rather have a conversation
than a conquest.
I'd rather have a courtship
than another corpse.

All those beautiful boys
made beautiful bones.
None made
a decent lover.

I hear you made it home.
I hear your woman wove you back to her
like a patient spider.
I am patient too.
I sit upon my rocky throne.
I braid my hair and unbraid it.
I claim a kill, still,
now and then.

I wait for you.
You will return.