by Angelica Krikler

A Siren hooks the jingle around a man’s eardrums
Lets her vocal cords climb like ivy up to the high tower, until the roots creep in and he must wait to be buried
She is who he picks the phone up to, only to hear the hum of a dead line
The weep of No Caller ID
Sailors pushed beeswax into their ears to stop the heavenly tunes, to resist the urge to jump
The Sirens’ chants so ethereal that the nutrients oozed out of the men’s cochlea
Gold dripped down their jawbones, and melodies were poured in by the wind
Like a vial of poison into the only water supply
Either he must resist a kiss or gulp it down with longing
And through the mist, the men found themselves in a dream, humming a hymn that grew and grew, until their feet beat the decks, their arms flailing with love
And what became of the femme fatales who made men rest on the ocean floor?
They lost the X Factor, head judge Zeus pressed the buzzer
Their busts pushed up to become islands
Ryanair may take bundles of lads to villas
So they can revel in the drunken Mediterranean beaches
Howling at girls who seem to whistle back
Waking up from their disco ball hangovers to the idyllic chirp of exotic creatures
Only to open the shutters, and wonder why no animals can be seen
Cursing the drip drip drip of the tap, and then noticing no water flows into the sink

Angelica Krikler

Angelica Krikler | @angelica.krikler
Angelica is an English Literature student. Her previous publications include: Ink, Sweat & Tears, Morphrog, The Claremont Review, Foxglove, The High Window and Lippy Magazine.

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