Siren Song

This week I met a Siren.
She was far from home.
Her wings were made of words:
Feather-strong,
Quivering, beating, soaring;
Given flight by her voice, and its echoes.
I had no crew
But she chained herself to my mast,
Allowing me to approach,
For touch is what a Siren craves most.
Her body, under my hands,
Sang of its nameless needs,
Its age-old longings.
And I listened to my fingers
And her breath and her skin and her seas
And sailed on her ebbs and flows, her cresting waves,
Until she met my gaze
And, with soft brown eyes, whirlpool deep,
She pulled me into her ocean.