Some day I'd like to meet a mermaid

from the shadow waters, all angler teeth

and see-through skin. I'd like to observe

her organs pulsing in the dim glow

of bioluminescence, watch her unhinge

a goblin-jaw to swallow lanternfish whole,

look into her eyes, large and dark, always

scanning up and never blinking. At night

I could watch her rise

to hunt. She wouldn't

sing, as I imagine space sirens doing.

They drift near the fringes of black holes,

eerie vibrations as much a lure as the light

marbling a deep-sea mermaid's skin.

Some new voyager would have to kill

his comms just to escape. Kind: ambush predator,

same as their ocean kin, too many

similarities to name. Just different lures.

You can't see them flirting

at the horizon.

I'd like to meet them too. Sometimes I wake

into my bedroom's blurry dark and feel arms twine

around my neck, see needle teeth smile wide

and maw crack before I realize I'm

alone. Mermaids have been mis-cast in myth,

all gentle, not something that leaves you gutted

in the black. I think I'd like to be swallowed

and unmade by something that's gorgeous

and deadly. I think I'd like to be drawn in.

GRETCHEN ROCKWELL (xe/xer) is a queer poet currently living in Pennsylvania. Xe has two microchapbooks, love songs for godzilla (Kissing Dynamite) and Thanatology (Ghost City Press), and xer work has appeared in Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Poet Lore, FOLIO, FreezeRay Poetry, and elsewhere. Gretchen enjoys writing poetry about gender and sexuality, history, myth, science, space, and unusual connections – find xer at gretchenrockwell.com or on Twitter at @daft_rockwell.