The Siren, After a Meal by Jules Arbeaux
31 lines
Issue 10 (Spring 2026)
You are tired,
razor teeth rust-red and blood-sated.
Silence expands in your throat.
It is too late now for him
to learn how you would
call from the rocks forever
for free, cradling
your throbbing, empty belly and filling it
with song. Oh, but you did not want him
like this, slick tongue and ivory teeth
lighthouses in a red ocean, eyes
dry-wide and open. What a
spectacle he was, pacing furrows
on the shore
clad in his Sunday best—a receptacle for your
desires, held far enough from your chest
not to burn. You would have been fine
like that, hot-hungry,
counting the white hills
of your ribs and playing with fire;
a meal is only once,
but an ideal is eternal.
You are too full, with him
and without him, with his life richly lived
and freely given.
You only pray there could have been
another, any other, way
to have his heart
than to wrench it
from the cradle of his chest.
