Her body is not my body--
this woman wrapped in steam 		her legs 
of melting wax and soft sea foam.

That woman of the interior 		        the hissing
bees of gaslight and brilliant 

hanging beads

And what if on this night 
she kneels by the window.

The diamond black snake 
of her braid
d
ripping 
down 		between her breasts as
she folds into herself 
like a swan.

What if on this night she thinks of sirens
and desire. She thinks of blood and bone
as it's pummeled against rock. What if half
the moon collapses and she turns her face 
to my face, 					                  there beneath
the window, cresting above 
a newly-formed wave.

What will she do with a skin of scales and salt?
What will she do as her mouth floods with pearls?

---

Author’s note: I feel a sense of untamed wildness in summer, and I think this poem represents that unbridled desire for transformation, to be magic, to be myth, to be the fabulous creature we sometimes repress for the day-to-day monotony of it all. And there is certainly a sense of questioning there. If we are to change places with the divine, we must ask, at what cost? Having recently undergone a dramatic change in my own physical body, I’ve been working with mermaid stories, as in “Genuflect,” to grapple with what it means to be home inside someone entirely new.

Jen Rouse lives in Iowa City with her partner and two rambunctious wheaten terriers. Her work can be found in Sweet Literary, Always Crashing, Lavender Review, and elsewhere. Fragments of V, her forthcoming chapbook, will be available Fall 2024 through Small Harbor Press.