What Ulysses Knew

Pamela Moore Dionne

Late August, phosphor ghost dances Discovery Bay. Wavelets rise ribboned by a fire of siren songs. Pulled from the house, I walk the beach. I'm a Pisces wary of water - the weight of it grasping at swimmers legs. Tonight liquid shadows undulate, glow, lit from inside out. Set free from the mast of my fears, I listen open-eared, open armed, eager. Drawn to sand where my footprints spark and shimmer behind me, filled with stardust, I lean into the soughing breeze, listen for the wave, bright with mermaid voices. I have forgotten what Ulysses knew about beauty.