Mermaids in Labour: Fit for Fantasy

A two-part poem inspired by my reading of Adrienne Rich’s “Diving into the Wreck”.

I. The Weight of the Fin

First, the tail:
fabric that flares into myth,
as if donning it could make you more
than human, more
than the sum of belts, medals, trophies,
the fleeting glory of polished strength.
But beneath the chlorinated surface,
no applause awaits.

Here, the water teaches humility—
every kick a trial,
every breath, a battle with drag,
hips pinioned in silicone binding,
each undulation defies
decades of disciplined mastery.

Nothing bends for you here.
The fin bites into the ankles,
muscles scream rebellion;
technique, honed on dojo floors,
seems absurd in this blue silence.
Grading systems mean nothing
to currents that strip you
to mere effort.

Here, I am not a champion—
just a body,
straining against buoyancy
in a struggle to inhabit
the shimmering lie of a mermaid.

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II. Cyborg Siren

Downward again,
this time encased in machinery,
an alloyed appendage of regulators and dials,
my mermaid fin replaced
by the strict pragmatism of flippers.
I descend not for grace,
but survival.

Beneath the surface:
the cold arithmetic of the tank,
numbers that dictate how much
life you can carry.
Forget one procedure—
one valve, one gasp of air too late—
and the water will reclaim
your lungs, its merciless embrace
witness to no fantasy.

This is a world without landmarks,
an alien terrain where the brain spins
in disorientation,
a field of misfit borders:
the surface above
that no longer feels like home,
the depths below,
a kingdom where no exile rules.

In this no-place, I am remade,
a creature of vigilance,
each thought, a tether
to survival’s thin cord.
I am mermaid only in myth now,
the cyborg that survives—barely—
outlasting fantasy
in the brutal clarity
of submerged time.

---

Reflection: Out of Place

Between the tail and the tank,
between the surface and the wreck,
I am neither swimmer nor citizen.
To belong is a myth;
to endure,
the unrelenting truth.

Water does not hold us—
it swallows,
and what we surface as,
is up to the struggle we carry.