Poem: “The Siren”

My mother goes with the siren.

'is not a battle bl’horn!

'is the crying song of a curl’d hair woman,

called to curling seas.

'is a battle bl’horn

to sleep, to drift.

My mother is called to curling Zs.

A bewitching clif’t enclave,

to sleep, to drift.

'is the sobbing song of a wave’d hand woman

inna bewitching clif’t grave.

My mother goes with the siren.

Image generated with Dall-E AI.