The mermaid they caught a few weeks back
is now quite fat, and rarely swims anymore.
She sits, lethargic, in her cage, her hair floating dully
along the surface of the oil clouded water.
I press my face against the glass, imagining childhood.
I can remember her weeks back.
She was new to our small town.
Her breasts supple, her stomach tanned and flat,
her tail long and lean, glistening with something
not quite entirely human, yet beautiful enough
to suddenly believe it belongs to us.
So we brought her to us, so she could never escape.
Our needy fingers, our hungry eyes
devoured her whole, kept her for our show.
So she showed off, enjoying inside the importance
of her magic in the eyes of children. Even the adults.
She remained passive, but wowed us with flips and
dips. She even understood us when we spoke, often
joining conversations half way through their wonder.
It just made us more in awe, more hopeful that
one day
we could be mermaids too.
But now she sits, broken yet more whole than ever.
Her breasts too full, her stomach stretched above her scales
which flake off in dull, rusted colors reacting with the glutton
in the water. We watch, our hands clenching handfuls
of popcorn, chips; our teeth grinding sweet buns, soft cookies.
Our hands reach for the camera in the pocket of too tight jeans,
feeling for memories that shouldn't be there.