I’m not sorry I married the storm
long before I cooed ‘I do’ to you –
he’s not bothered over forks and knives,
‘yes, please’ or ‘thank you’ – doesn’t question
the reason for my night-time purring

instead, he scoops me up from the beach
in nitrogen palms, tames your princess
into his sea beast, whips up her breath
then hurricanes her, dips and blows her
manners to foam with gusts of rough breeze

we rumba-roll across the surface
while your pretty little head’s asleep
– don’t worry, you won’t know how my hair
got this entangled – how the whitecaps
splashed around my hips – how I dream up

a new scaled tail,
    and never long for
        legs or becoming
            human again


Published in my chapbook Fold me a Fishtail (Selcouth Station Press).