The Mermaid

November 2, 2007
By Calla Holmes-Robbins, Chesterton, IN

She wraps her cool white arms about his neck.
Gently, and almost tenderly, she pulls him beneath the
crashing waves.

A stream of bubbles rise from his parted lips.
Seaweed tears at his hair and clothes as if it were a living thing,
seeking the warmth of his human body.

She drags him down, deeper and deeper,
the water swirling about them
grows cold. But his body is still warm.

She craves that warmth and pulls him deeper.
Fewer and fewer bubbles rise from those soft lips.
Down to the depths of the ocean she drags him,
to line beside others- a line of gruesome trophies at
the bottom of the sea.

A grim display of sailors drowned and dead, he joins their ranks
as she sucks the last drop of warmth from his
limp body. His heart pounds one last time in his
fragile chest, then it lies still.

A cry of despair rips from her throat-
all she wants is the warmth of his arms.

For she is condemned to never walk on the warm ground,
to never feel the heat of the sun
on a summer afternoon.

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