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Siren

By (October 1, 2017) No Comment

 
I tell the man sitting next to me
at the bar I am done with men
and this is the worst line ever—
a hook with no bait.

He polishes a coin with a cocktail
napkin and I forge on, cataloguing
every male thing I don’t want and
I don’t even know who I’m talking to—

this man or myself. I don’t know
if this is a dare or a promise
not to trade my clothes and autonomy
for a bubble of romance and the residue

it leaves when it bursts. Either way,
any benefits go unrealized. Either way,
the nascent conversation fizzles
under my wet match of a tongue.

He pays for his beer and leaves
the shiny nickel and crumpled napkin
on the bar and I know which one
I am. On my walk home, I see him

through the window of another bar,
leaning towards a laughing woman
and she is younger and prettier than me
or else she is older and wearing

unfortunate lipstick. Either way, she
is not me, and I am older and less
attractive than I was a drink ago
and I am a siren singing a dirge.

I am a siren singing watch out
for the rocks.
I am a siren
not singing at all, just watching
the last ship disappear over the horizon.
 
____
Suzanne Langlois lives in Portland, Maine, where she teaches high school English. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in NAILED Magazine, Cider Press Review, Sugared Water, The Fourth River, Menacing Hedge, and Rattle. Her work has also been featured on the Button Poetry Channel.

 

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