by J. B. Sisson

“You’ve got the breasts of a mermaid,” he said
and added, “She just called.  She wants them back.”
A fantasy implodes with one wisecrack
and festers, even for a newlywed
slowly succumbing to a curious dread,
as though a comment were a sneak attack
by her beloved mythomaniac
walking a cliff trail on West Quoddy Head:
green water flashing in the rocks below,
an eagle rising on a thermal draft,
the raucous mockery of a white crow
as if a multitude of sea gods laughed
while Melusina opened her trousseau
full of the marvels of her ancient craft.