The Little Mermaid - Jessica Fox-Wilson

The Mermaid Sees the World


for the first time, when she was thirteen
years old. For years, she waited her turn.
Her older sisters visited first, taught her
everything they knew. They said that men
swam on land, using two long limbs
to balance upon. They built castles

from compressed sand and rock. They wrapped
soft scales around their bodies, in colors
that were brighter than any fish in the sea.
They never sang. Instead, they gurgled
and chattered like dolphins. To the sisters,
they were strange. To the youngest mermaid,

they sounded beautiful, more beautiful
than the coral and seaweed she circled
every day. On her thirteenth birthday,
the mermaid breaks the glass surface
of the sea and finds a gray swath
of sky, the same color as the ocean.

She sees water pour from the sky in columns,
blue light streaking and landing
on a wooden vessel beside her. Orange
tongues lick the structure clean. Men
scream and fall in to the water. They bob
and sink, backs curled like turtles.

She waits for them to move and kick,
dive and rise like she would. They only
float. She finds the nearest man
and swims below him. His mouth
open, eyes closed. She has seen
that look before, on old fish that float

to the surface. She rolls the man
on to his back, hears him sputter
and cough. The mermaid and the man
link eyes as she guides him towards the shore.
She sees in him the whole world
she is missing and yet, she pushes him away.

The Mermaid Loses Her Voice


Yes, was the last word she said.  Seconds later,
the witch removed her tongue. This was before

she braved the witch’s dark garden, seaweed
winding around her arms. Still before she defied
her family, abandoned their crowded sandbar.
Before her months of mourning, before
her salt tears poured in to the salt sea.
Before she knew that loss and love were both

as boundless and empty as the black sea. Before
she saved her first love, pushed
his limp body toward the surface, toward the air
he could breathe. Before his ship opened
like a hungry mouth and devoured everyone
aboard. Before she saw his unconscious,
beautiful face.  Before she learned
that mermaids had no souls, no hope of eternal life. 
Before she knew she was trapped.

Before all this, she was just a girl
with a lovely voice and a limited life.

So, she said, yes, and watched the witch slice
her tongue from her mouth with the silver knife,
watched her tongue, that slippery fish, swim
through clouds of blood and plankton, then plop
 in the burbling black potion. Yes, she had said
then mawed the water and tried to find her way home. 


The Mermaid Learns to Walk


The sand around her refracts and shines
like glass. She focuses on each glittering

grain, each new salty breath she takes,
so that she doesn’t feel her green

fin split into two milky white props.
She marvels at the way her scales,

flake off to reveal such a smooth
surface. She is naked and awake. Her hair

tangles around her body like seaweed,
binding her to the sandbar. He takes

her hand without asking and she smiles
a tongueless, toothy smile. It is true

that every step pierces the bottoms
of her brand new feet, each grain

grinds into her skin. Yet, she remains
both silent and lovely. She simply smiles

and breathes, wonders at her new world,
leaving a trail of dark red footprints in her wake.


The Mermaid Ascends


Standing above
her lover and his bride,
the mermaid
makes her choice. The knife
is heavy in her palm.

She kisses his forehead, sees
that he does not wake.

The mermaid flings
the knife into the water.
The seas seethe
red, gurgle
like blood. There is only
one thing left for her to do.

She takes one last leap
on her borrowed legs,
one last breath
with her new lungs.

The air tastes salty,
even without her tongue.
She never feels
her impact.
One moment

she is aloft
and the next she is crushed
by walls of blue. Water
floods her nostrils, fills
her mouth, fills
her lungs. She is not scared,

just curious as she feels
every molecule dissolve
into foam. But then,
just as she finally lets go
of her sinking body,

hands encircle her, fish her
out of the waves. She rises
out of her father's kingdom,
above her lover's ship, above
the crowded city. She feels

sun on her permeable skin
as she floats weightless
to her next home.


Jessica Fox-Wilson
© 2010
all rights reserved

Writers Talk - Jessica Fox-Wilson

Jessica Fox-Wilson is a poet, writer, & educator who lives in Minneapolis with her husband & cats.  A graduate of Hamline University's Master of Fine Arts in Writing, her poetry has appeared in several journals, including Poetry Motel, qarrtsiluni, Epicenter & Rive Gauche.  Her articles have appeared in print & online publications, most recently online at Read Write Poem. She blogs at everythingfeedprocess.com. 

To get some sense of Jessica's writing, please check out the Writers Talk blog, where you’ll be able to read a four poem sequence.  

When did you first realize your identity as a writer? 

I identified myself as a writer once I reached high school. I struggled academically and there were a few key teachers who encouraged my writing. Their early encouragement also inspired my interest in education as a professional career. However, in high school, I participated in all of the artsy activities – I was a theater-art class-lit journal geek.

Once I reached college, I initially hoped to triple major in Theater, Education and Creative Writing. I realized pretty early on that three majors might kill me, so I dropped Theater, since it didn’t allow me enough free time to write. In college, I met some of my best writing/real life friends, including my husband. I’ve labeled myself as a poet educator ever since.  

Describe the creative process involved in any one piece you’ve written—this could be book, a story, a poem, an essay, etc.

This winter, I was writing a chapbook manuscript about my recent knee injury and surgery, and I knew I needed a series of poems that rose above my own experience. In my thesis manuscript, I wrote several persona poems from the voice of fairy tale characters or mythological figures to achieve that same goal. (I wrote more about this part of my aesthetic on my blog, in case you’re interested.) My hope was that I could connect what I was experiencing in my healing process to something larger about physicality and female identity.

I started to research fairy tales that dealt with legs, walking, et cetera and found a translation of The Little Mermaid. After re-reading the original story, I wrote a poem called “The Mermaid Loses Her Voice,” which I hoped capture the original’s tone. As the manuscript developed, I wrote the entire arc of the fairy tale as individual poems. The arc of the story served as my structure for the manuscript.
 
Could you describe your relationship to the publishing process? (this can be publishing in any form, from traditional book publishing to blogging, etc)
If I had answered this question in college or during my MFA, I would have said that my main goal was to publish a book of poetry with a traditional publisher.  As I’ve gotten older (and lazier), I’ve found that I don’t have the persistence for the traditional model of publishing.

For me, self-publishing is a much more sustainable model. Right now, I self-publish through my blog and my Twitter account. Beyond my blog, I hope to one day self-publish in actual book form. I’m inspired by (what I’m calling) the Amanda Palmer of self-publishing, which you’ve mentioned on your blog. Artists should take ownership of the dissemination of their work in the world. And they should get paid for it, if there is an audience who will pay for it.

Now, I just have to find the time and the appropriate format for self-publishing. I’m interested in hearing feedback from folks who have self-published through a POD or traditional printer and hearing about their experiences.
 
How has being a writer affected your relationships?

Writing has been the common bond for many of my relationships. My husband is a fellow writer, my best friends from college are fellow writers, and most of my non-writing friends know me as a writer.

I think the challenge of being a writer with relationships is that I feel I have to sacrifice one for the other. There are times when I have to be a bad friend because I need writing time. Luckily, most of my friends give me the space I need. There are other times when I choose to give up a little writing time, so that I can spend time with someone who is important to me. I don’t think I could ever be a recluse-writer because I need those relationships in my life.
 
How would you describe the community of writers you belong to—if any? This may be a “real” or “virtual” (in more than one sense) community.

In real life, my most important writing community is my husband. He keeps me honest and focused on my writing, even when I feel discouraged. It’s a blessing to have someone who believes in your art, especially when you live with him. Together, we participate in a monthly writer’s group, with two other writers.

In my online life, I am a blogger, Twitter user, Facebook user, and general community floater. When I first started blogging, I found a wonderful poetry-prompt community called Poetry Thursday, which eventually morphed into Read Write Poem. I made several good poetry friends there, before the site ended earlier this year.  Since then, I’m floating a bit. I like Big Tent Poetry quite a lot, which was founded by some truly awesome Poetry Thursday/Read Write Poem folks. I also like We Write Poems, which also started from the Read Write Poem community. Hopefully, I’ll alight on one or both of these lovely sites soon.

Without the online writing communities, I don’t know if I could have remained as committed to my writing as I have been, in the five years since I finished my MFA. There is such a great opportunity for collaboration, connection, and motivation through the internet that isn’t always possible in real life.  I can chat with writers in Idaho or India, without ever having to leave Minnesota, and learn from them. It’s pretty amazing.
 
What are your future goals in terms of writing?

Keep writing. In all sincerity, that’s my main goal. At this point in my writing life, the biggest threat to my writing is the accumulated competing claims on my time.  Individually, they don’t seem like much. There’s a job, relationships, and other art forms. But in aggregate, they become overwhelming. I’ve seen many writers lose the focus of their writing because everything else takes precedence. I honestly just pray that I can stick with it.

Bonus Question: If your writing were a musical instrument, what would it be?

My writing would be a player piano, with slightly asynchronous timing.