who?

The Mermaid’s Reply 
to J. Alfred Prufrock

Let us go then, you and I
When the moon is high in the sky
Like an eye wide with delight.

Let us walk upon white shores
Buffeted by restless seas,
Waves which flood you
With an overwhelming question.
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the men are talking low
Of the women who come and go.

The phosphorescent coral lights
A question to the blank sky.
And indeed there will be time
To create a boneshell cage
A house for your hunger to
Greet the hunger that you meet.

In the room the men are talking low
Of the women who come and go.

And indeed there will be time
To urge you, urge you to dare,
But time, also, to see you
Knot your fists in your hair…
In a minute there is time
For the essence of possibility
To vanish in an instant.

Oh, I have known them all already, known them all—
The mendicant beachcombers cursing
The reticence of the lip of shore
And the sheer thrust of coursing wave, both.

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
Eyes that let me see to the prurient bottom, bare
(but beneath the moon, glazing over with a hard stare!)
Is it the memory of his fright
Which calls forth all my spite?
And how should I begin?
And why should I presume?

Shall I say I have been
In the bowels of convention
And watched Pride choke on its own desire?

I am the song that answers itself,
Borne lightly on the swallowing sea.

You sleep so peacefully!
Should I, heeding Dionysus,
Elucidate and then impersonate the crisis?
I am a priestess; the greatness of the matter is
There is never a seizure of momentum
When fear clutches at my ribs and then folds up.

It is worth it to say
I bear witness, I believe
Though they have all said,
"Finally, you know, this is meaningless."

I am no Ophelia
Though they would have me be.
I’ve been to the nunnery;
Rutted and worshipped at the altar of Love,
Always with courage to play the fool.

I grow  young…I grow young…
I shall reinvent the world with my tongue.

Darling, grow your hair past your shoulders
Or shave it off.
Eat cherry after cherry and then eat a plum.
Wear trousers slit to show beneath
A tiny crescent of naked peachflesh.

When I sing, my voice marries the air
Which is to say,
If some thread of melody carries and reaches,
Quickens you on the narrow strip of this beach,
Darling, I am always singing.  Listen.

© 2000 Magdalena Alagna