Tami Haaland

Given Time

Today the Sirens begin in the street,
the first dressed in plaid, her song
arriving before we see her slow step.
Then others, each with her part.
Their procession passes the house,
then again, inviting us to step outside.
Even I, mother of these boys,
want to sprint to the fence,
smile as they pass and think of
my own young voice and unlined face.

The boys watch as I make my move,
their ears sealed in headphones blasting
Guns and Roses, and they pull me back,
lash me to an elm in the back yard
with rope from the old baby swing.
What are they afraid of? Their mother might
join the Sirens, take up art songs, speak
in French? In Greek? The elm, sick in its center,
drips sap, but the leaves unfurl and
its finest branches tick-tick in the wind.

The Sirens have gone to the street
by the cliff. They may not return,
and I could be left under the full moon,
stars overhead. Overhead, cool air and
the massive sky. O Sirens, come back.
These men will not waste away, will not
listen long enough to know your names.
But I am here, a lone woman bound
to this elm, and I would follow your voices.
In time, I could learn your song.