Nixe Poem by Giles Watson

I have my own alchemy, thank you.

You plumb the depths for treasure,
Dream of gold and dredge up lead,
And all the while, I am dreaming
Into existence a slow transmutation
Of skin into scale. It begins
At the fingertips which have
Disappeared, slivers its way
Past my throat, round my umbilicus -
But all its slimed and iridescent
Glory has its tidemark at my hips:
The superstructure of pelvis, joints,
Femoral and tibial muscles suspended
In a sleek aquatic metamorphosis.

You could call me siren - stretch
To grasp what you cannot hold. I
Would leave a thin film of mucus
In your grip, smelling of fish -
A miraculous wet glistering,
And not surrender a scale. You'd
Swab it off and curse, and utterly
Miss the one truth I could give you:
Life, sex, lust, the slop of liquid -
These are gold. You stop, take
One last brazen look at my breasts,
And swim for the surface. That gasp
Of air is the sound of you surrendering
A host of riches. In your legends,
You will foist upon me mirrors
And combs, but I know my own sleekness
Already; reflections are useless.

Go on, shipwrecked sailors - row
For shore. Imagine me your lover,
Or your bride. Forget that you
Will have to drown first. You
Would have scaled me like a fish,
Made bright fillets of my flesh,
Let my guts spill in the tide -
But I keep my gills on the inside.