The Mermaid Under the Streetlamp

Locked myself out of my room at 2am
without any shoes, so we decided
to go over to his place. He had a bike;
I didn’t, so I rode it really slow
while he walked alongside. I forgot
road bikes can’t take curbs,
went over with a jolt, put my feet down
on shards of broken glass from a
beer bottle some dumbass chucked
over the balcony last night.
Standing there, with glass in my
feet and nowhere to go, I couldn’t
help thinking of “The Little Mermaid”—
the Hans Christian Anderson version,
where she disobeys her father
to run away with the prince and
as punishment, every step she takes
feels like walking on knives.
And as much as I’m glad that those
big symbolic gestures are out of
style, that they died around
the same time as Romeo and Juliet—
part of me felt just like her:
standing breathless in a new world,
too much oxygen to swallow,
colors deeper under the streetlights
that in a murky city undersea—
pain a hard edge to this new love—
This was how it all began.

Feet bleeding and cleaning themselves,
Then opening up again—
He helped pull out the pieces of glass
Under the orange sodium lights
and carried me piggyback the
few blocks home. We stopped
a couple of times and I think
he may have hurt his back
a bit, because we’re both almost
six feet tall and kind of scrawny—
but carrying me was a better gesture
than any nonsense about walking
on knives to prove your love.