Poem: Ichthyosis

Ichthyosis

There are almost as many types of mermaids
as there are fish in these seas,
mermaids who teem in schools, flitting
from one island to another
in support groups and conventions,
places where can wear short sleeves
and backless dresses, where they complement
each other on their scales.

Most of the mermaids, you can't even tell.
They're driving down the street,
shopping at your grocery store,
attending your schools, working at your job,
shedding fine little scales like dandruff,
wriggling in the dance clubs,
diving into your local pool,
paddling kayaks down rivers.

Fish permeate our lives;
we eat them on New Year's for fortune,
stare at them in constellations in the sky,
idle our day by the river, pole in hand.
In the green light of the aquarium
faces pushed up against the glass
watching darts and swords,
jellies and mantas, like a cloak
or a plume through the water.

Oh, what must it be like to be a fish
with a phobia of water, who must lather
herself with emollients, smoldering in oils.
Now I know, there's nothing romantic
about these aquatic feathers,
nothing mystical about these mermaids.