sirens, eyes closed, on the rocks.
sirens, breath steady, floating
in the water, then looking
like they’re about to sink.
sirens, not screaming, not
singing, not ensnaring
men and pulling them down.
this time, when Odysseus’
unnamed ship passed those
rocky crags now silent and
unscathing, no gallery of
soprano voices lilted down
the cliffside, and the sirens
didn’t watch the men
watch them. they were out
as if with lotus, chamomile,
melatonin. as monsters and
as women (which are really
just the same uniform) they
were used to caring too much.
sleep let them care too little,
not at all—we are not
your protectors anymore,
their eyelids fluttered, sighed.
slicing through the oars, the water’s
blue made the men’s medals
glisten, with ribbon after ribbon
stuck on their shirts’ pockets.
the children in the village they’d
plunder later would never see
their accolades, nor would they
ever awaken like the sirens
the next day, wondering what
on earth they’d let happen, caused.
Courtney Felle is a daughter, dreamer, writer, watcher, waffle enthusiast, and recent high school alumna. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming at other publications including Jet Fuel Review, Moledro Magazine, and Chautauqua Literary Magazine. She herself is the founder and current editor-in-chief for Body Without Organs Literary Journal, which can be found online at http://bodywithoutorgans.weebly.com/.