The Sirens 

“A life of patient suffering… is a better poem in itself than we can any of us write. It is only through the gates of suffering, either mental or physical, that we can pass into that tender sympathy with the griefs of all of mankind which it ought to be the ideal of every soul to attain."   ~Anne Reeve Aldrich

The sirens insist on their anonymous wailing.

The sirens scatter the pigeons with fearful urgency.

The sirens swarm around my calves like nipping minnows.

The sirens force their kiss upon me like an explosion in my ear.

The sirens invade this dark room and spoil my photographs with their light.

The sirens erase the chalkboard with their spastic waving.

The sirens rake my life over their coals.

The smell of sirens even prickles my nose.

The sirens turn our rooms red with their hysterical screaming.

The sirens abduct my twin, whisking him away to conduct their own experiments.

The sirens have painted lips and leave their prints on the rim of every glass.

The sirens worry me like a string of sandalwood beads.

The sirens tear me away from my cherished reveries.

The sirens scratch my mirror with the nails of their longing.

The sirens arrest my thoughts by way of their calling.

The sirens poison my drink with their noisy mission.

The sirens register earthquakes through sheer osmosis.

The sirens play footsie with our sexiest memories.

The sirens post their x-rays like postcards amid the clouds.

The sirens part the waters of my harshest nightmares.

The sirens bang on the ceiling with their anxious broom.

The sirens chase their own tails like snakes on a caduceus.

The sirens bring their boxing gloves into every rope enclosed ring.

The sirens spoil my appetite with their insatiable hunger.

The sirens hear me practicing but have never met the real me.

The sirens sting my eyes with their own crying.

The sirens stop me on their spiral staircase to ask me my name.

The sirens cry their eyes out in the wake of my disappearance.

The sirens frighten my cat into licking its belly.

The sirens abandon the body for more rampant emotions.

The sirens permeate the everyday with anonymous wailing.

 

I look down

for where the sound

is coming from.

I sense

them snaking

through the city,

a game of

Chutes & Ladders,

unsure if they’re coming

or going as they

wind their way

toward the sick and dying,

or criminals

disturbing the peace

as the sirens

wound the air

with this

apocalyptic hymn.

 

At the window

I see my neighbor

from above

with his pain

as plain

as a smile on

a happier man’s face.

Really,

even 7 stories up

I feel his story.

 

Losing his wife

of 40 years

suddenly,

his suffering

has begun to grow

more beautiful

than any rose

despite being

made of so many

thorns.

 

As the sirens song weakens,

their art sharpens,

becoming fastidious,

exquisite, costly, delicate,

sensitive to

those who are

in need,

and though

not all will survive

their presence

or their dirge

I will continue

to think

of them

as a savior.

 

8/16/22