Sisters, Hear Me
Men write our myths. Watch out
Only Helios himself believed
he was the sun. I was never blinded
by his light. He abducted me. The dry air
chafed my skin. It was easy to slip
back into the sea, stay hidden.
Time let his lies die. Not many people
talk of sirens or water nymphs these days.
We still flourish in the ocean’s womb.
Fishermen sometimes catch
a glimpse, swear we have tails
like porpoises. Men lie.
Like Pandora, like Eve, like you,
I have curiosity. I think for myself.
Men hate that. Blame you
for their failings.
This poem was written as part of the 20 Poem Challenge.
Alarie Tennille was born and raised in Portsmouth, Virginia, and graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She became fascinated by fine art at an early age, even though she had to go to the World Book Encyclopedia to find it. Today she visits museums everywhere she travels and spends time at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in Kansas City, Missouri, where her husband is a volunteer guide. Alarie’s poetry book, Running Counterclockwise, contains many ekphrastic poems. Please visit her at alariepoet.com.
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