Nida Sophasarun
SIRENS
We sailed past a tanker to the mouth of the river
where the monk chanted and flung holy water over
shards of bone laid out in front of her picture. I had prayed
days before over her face and body and asked if she could
please not haunt me, knowing the spirit usually decides
in the days right after. I dropped the clay urn onto the rough
and muddy Chao Praya. The cap dislodged, and our boat
moved on. I stayed a few days more and ate the papaya, noodles
and curries over which, even as enigmas to each other,
we had tasted recognition: mother and daughter.
Flying back home I watched old movies on the plane
and mesmerized by the gauzy close ups of the sirens’
dark eyes and wavy hair, I realized she would not
come to me in hallways and dreams, since in the lunar
glow of their poreless skin, I already saw her as she had
always been: beautiful and cold and haunting me
since birth.
Nida Sophasarun’s first book, Novice, came out from LSU Press (2025) in the Sewanee Poetry series this past spring. She has lived and worked in Asia and Eastern Europe for over 20 years. Her poems appear in New England Review, Prairie Schooner, 32 Poems, RHINO, Literary Matters and elsewhere.