The Tithe of Foam
The ship is a cradle of silk and of wine,
Where the Prince sleeps in lace, oblivious and fine.
But the air tastes of iron, the moon bleeds a glare,
And a shadow is creeping up the mahogany stair.
She stands by his bedside on needles and glass,
Watching the ghosts of her sister' hair pass.
The sea-witch's bargain-a tongue for a blade,
A debt to the deep that has yet to be paid.
The toll of her transformation:
The Tongue: A root pulled raw, a silenced bell.
The Feet: Each step a rhythmic, stinging hell.
The Heart: A hollow shell, filled with brine and bile.
The Choice: His cooling blood, or her own final mile.
He dreams of the temple, the girl on the sand,
While the "foundling" stands over him, dagger in hand.
She remembers the sting of the salt in her gills,
And the way that his laughter gave her the chills.
She does not weep bubbles; she does not turn to foam.
She's a daughter of predators, far from her home.
With a strike like a harpoon, the silver bites deep,
And the Prince finds a silence more eternal than sleep.
The sheets bloom in crimson, a coral-reef red,
As she tastes the first word she has ever since said.
It isn't a plea, and it isn't a sigh,
But a low, guttural hiss as the shoreline draws nigh.
She leaps from the railing, no longer a ghost,
Leaving his corpse for the gulls on the coast.
The ocean receives her, not as mist or as air,
But as a queen with a crown made of his golden hair.
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