Andromeda’s Lament
Gretchen Tessmer
the wind whispered change, heralded by bells
of tinkling tunes and melodies
so pale, so plain
a boatswain call off a ragged coast, I fell
beneath a spell
of rescue, long hoped for, but never made
from the dizzying heights
of this cliff-side cage
but I’d grown so used to
the sound of waves, crashing over black rocks
and gulls dropping shells to crack open a prize, and eat
the flesh they found inside
whether sour or sweet—
my skin grew scales and became salt-speckled
with seaweed strands of red-brown hair, and
nails made of white whalebone
I’m afraid…
when Perseus cut me down
and tried to pull me away, I struggled
I dug those nails into
rock, into limestone bluffs
roughly
clinging to my cage
(my home)
this sea-soaked place
where the Kraken rose up
from moon-tossed surf
to gently kiss
my trembling brow
where I forgot my mother’s name; where I forgot my father’s face
where I forgot the gilded language
of shallow love and vain heroes
that left me chained here in the first place
Gretchen Tessmer is a writer based in the U.S./Canadian borderlands. She writes both short fiction and poetry, with work appearing in over forty publications, including Nature, Strange Horizons and F&SF, as well as previous appearances in Liminality.