purest of prose - "wean"
la mort d'une sirène
she plucks caution by removing each scale. to her knowledge they were resilient and able to bend against beating waves in shallow water. now salt has turned them brittle. luster lost, they flake away as petal husks ushered by the wind. she winces when one catches beneath her nail and twists (but feels no pain).
mother once told her of knights and their horses, of damsels waiting in dank places, of glass heels and gourds becoming carriages, how each thing, in essence, has its place.
the clock struck midnight years ago. it is time to awake and walk on land.