- Vol. 09
- Chapter 03
The Abduction of a Forsythia-Yellow Duck
Saturday night bath time. I am deep in rising puffs
of steam, between warm breaths of fog, lavender salts,
and 11 o’clock. My legs, bitten by hot water, are
buoyant and drowning at the same time, and my toes
are painted scarlet Sirens. Such wee beauties, such
alluring tragedies. Sing, you chorus of razor-sharp
tongues from sibilant Isles of Sirenum Scopuli.
A Siren is calling to my forsythia-yellow rubber duck.
Ho! Tie yourself to a mast! Stuff your ears with soap,
and duck!
The howl of wind, a funnel of echoes, a slash upon
smooth white porcelain cliffs. Ooh, those wooing
maids painted scarlet are swimming a stone’s throw
from the pebbly shore. Beware my ducky, my brave
odd bobbing Odysseus. Beware of harpies and
kelpies and tentacled amusements, creatures of
servitude and abduction lusting after your
forsythia-yellow, for your wheezy-siren quack.
The Abduction of a Forsythia-Yellow Duck
Oh, duck, the Sirens are singing, are singing.
Yes, I said Singing! Hear them, my Duckery.
Flee this place, my forsythia-yellow quackery.
Oh lo, low-blow, he is lost to their tones, sinking,
sinking in a drink of lavender salt water. Gone!
Drowned, downed by Sirens' scarlet painted toes.