we are lorelei, draped on coral rocks with wet tresses. the rocks are sharp with the bones of the long dead, but the sailors are drunk and move off to waters that couldn’t be bluer. we too push off, away from the tchotchke vendors high on the hill, trying to lure us into ruin, with coconut bird-feeders, sea-shell what-nots, hand carved monkeys. we are unchained, but just unchained, from the ruins among the poison trees. 2009