after Cher’s 1990 film Mermaids
One of my daughters prefers to sleep underwater.
Before bed, she holds her breath for five seconds
short of the world record, stopwatch gripped
in her fist raised high above the bathwater.
I can’t watch. As the slitted lampshade ripples
yellow light over the blue walls and paper fishes,
she drifts off. We’re each determined to survive
in those places where we don’t belong. To settle
for change rather than slow-motion ourselves
into a settled life. In the kitchen, we bump hips
and bop our heads to Jimmy Soul. Eat stars
for dinner: fruity hors d’oeuvres slipping
down damp toothpicks. Our life is so much
better than a kiss. My older daughter defines
resolution as wish. This year I wish to be—
who knows? Cherished, I think, but cannot say
aloud because tonight I am a mermaid, blond
curls and glittering crown, my cardboard tail
strung to one wrist raised high so I can dance.
