bent-kneed sirens perch on the immersed rock
in red bathing suits. the crust is smooth
beneath them. their blonde hair
does not wave to the sea. they are not
worried. the women,
in white suits, wield knives.
they are beneath the rock
gouging crevices in arcs.
ropes tied around their midsections
are fixed to wooden buckets nodding on the surface.
their legs scissor-split, their black goggles
smeared in sea-salt.
the women will never reach the sirens.
will never crack the foam nor
best the scalloped shelf cups
only scrape from the bed polyps swollen
and secreting adoration.
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