The Filleted Mermaid

Her turquoise tail shimmies and spirals to neon noise indifferent to the eyes filleting skin from ribs. The moon helps her swallow a spoonful of bitter memory. Her bones blade through her back, scalpels once sharpened on a bathroom door as fingers plucked scales into grout—fallen stars left to cool, their color bleeding into water dripped from clean hands. Ink jetted through her translucent torso like a celaphod’s smokescreen. Blue echoes eclipsed her breasts, leaving luminous crescents—birthing modesty. She dragged the shards of beer bottles before removal to watch the glittered red pearls form.  Every night she casts herself back into brimming floor, tongue clinging to the salt shaken from tilted glass. 

Hannah Rose Neuhauser is from Louisville, KY, but currently lives in Ann Arbor where she works at 826michigan. She spends most of her time with words, young authors, and robots. Her work is forthcoming or has recently appeared in Cactus Heart, Maudlin House, and apt. She tweets @velvetraccoon.