4/27/18

The Sirens - Lawrence Raab

After a while we got tired of singing.
One morning out on the rocks
with not a ship in sight, we all felt it—

a certain weariness, a malaise,
if you will. We felt it together,
sympathy having become

one of the finer aspects
of our nature. We’ve drifted apart
since those days, yet we’re happy

being remembered as impossible
to resist. The legends used to claim
we knew the future as well—all things

which shall be hereafter upon the earth,
as our song put it. Everyone only assumed
we were beautiful. But we were, and are,

though not unlike so many other
women now, those who promise much less,
but let you live. It was a relief

to give up our powers willingly.
That didn’t happen often in our world,
where the gods went on amusing themselves

with their meddling, and the hero
plowed ahead, lashed to the mast,
dying to be tempted. Did we enjoy the clamor

of shipwreck? The cries of the disillusioned?
It was our job, our particular talent.
We weren’t supposed to want anything else.

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