There is Delilah, skipper of a dinghy with no rudder,
no oars. She drifts between vanishing islands,
shallow tombolos, all that the siren has ever known,
crying out as crabs scuttle across her sinking toes.
Her eyes scan for land that will not melt among the tides.
Wallowing and wayward, sighing in salty hymns,
she sifts through pebbles, piling quartz into the hallows
of her dress as her pockets sag with blushing stones.
With every wave and every lurch, she thirsts
for the motion's ending. Yet, the water refuses her
a buoy or barnacled chain, until at the bow, singing out,
she dooms not a sailor, but herself, to the sea.
There is Delilah, with crystal roses, choosing to sink alone,
adrift without an anchor, so she shall act as her own.