Art by Amy Wheaton

At Weeki Wachee

A woman’s hips,summer crush,fling
gone awry,dancing to move on,
dancing as a metaphor
for sex, dancing
as a segue to sex,dancingfreely

with gal pals—underwaterpop songs
fill meas the 78-year-old retired mermaid drags me across the wet
surface.I’m tethered
to her buoy,she calls Victor.
We’re tailed and fantastic—
our shadow:a star.

Undulations undulationsI’m an eel
until I inhale water—then I am messy,
lightheaded—like after too much laughing
or kissing.

I reach for Victor.
Beneath us a sea floor
made to look like a stage,
meant to look like a sea floor.

I focus on Rihanna’s voice.Thinking of an umbrella underwater
soothes me—every moment I think
of drowning. When am I not
thinking of drowning in some way?

On the edge of the spring: an interstate
and across from that, a Motel 6.The spring water
is mouthwash blue.The sun is a heat lamp
clipped on the Plexiglas stage wall.
A looking inlooking out:

my reflection
bopping underwater to the bass
of a summer song. Emerging
from the polymer world: a siren.

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