You swear like a sailor in all your poetry.
It’s known, for shame.
I do, said the poet
I certainly do, and I know a sailor too.
He is and was my father.
He won a clam from a mermaid once,
then kept it in a trunk. I never asked if it smelled.
My father, a sailor, told many tales.
But stranger, strangely, he never did swear.
I, said the poet, make up the change.
You cheapen it with profanity. Anyone can say fuck.
I agree, said the poet. But we make it true.
My father dove deep, found
a mermaid down below. Later,
his words; they were not lessened
by what came before.
I crafted the mermaid, said the poet.
It suited my line. And I swear,
as myself, this sailor’s daughter, one time, I saw a fucking mermaid
Emma Johnson-Rivard
Emma Johnson-Rivard is a midwestern writer of poetry and weird fiction. Her work has appeared in Strange Horizons, Coffin Bell, Moon City Review, and others. She can be found at Bluesky at @blackcattales and at emmajohnson-rivard.com
Edward Michael Supranowicz
Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Lithuanian/Russian/Ukrainian
immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting
and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight,
Another Chicago Magazine, Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is
also a published poet who has had over 700 poems published and been nominated for the
Pushcart Prize multiple times.