Poetry By Natasha Bredle

Daniel X. O'Neil CC




The Mermaid 

The mermaid sometimes nicks herself with a razor.
The mermaid’s hair has a boyish cut. 
The mermaid acts cool, but is really afraid 
of the musty deep. 
The mermaid has an old soul, but a youthful heart, 
always skipping beats nervously, putting jaws and teeth 
to the shifting shadows. The mermaid wants to shadow. 
Wants to secret. Wants to lurk. 
But the mermaid works the closing shift and finds it hard
to wake up in the mornings, bedsheets a heavy current. 
The mermaid hates being a metaphor. 
The mermaid wants to remain an unknown,
a sliver of undiscovery amidst the infinite blue. 
The mermaid doesn't live near water. The closest body 
is the gated nieghborhood’s pool. The mermaid 
drinks from the tap. Splashes her face over the sink. 
Cleans her scales above a shower drain, 
where the salt and sea foam swirl down. 
The mermaid doesn't want another day. 
Yesterday the mermaid wept on the sidewalk. 
The day before she got a speeding ticket. 
The day before she got a phone call.
The mermaid wants a reason. She doesn’t need a castle, 
just a nicer view. 
The mermaid isn't beautiful. The mermaid needs beauty,
something in dull lighting that doesn’t make sound. 
The mermaid has a good voice, but wants a siren’s. 
The mermaid gets lost often.
The mermaid has to clock in now.
The mermaid has a scar on her thigh. 
Leave the mermaid alone. 


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Natasha Bredle is an emerging writer based in Cincinnati. She likes sunsets and the quiet, and is the caretaker of several exotic pets. You can find her work in Words and Whispers, Polyphony Lit, and Lumiere Review, to name a few.