Mermaids rode the wallpaper carousel, side-saddle on seahorses.
Mermen floated nearby with lascivious mustaches.
The children's bathroom: set for the last battle
of the underpants I automatically put on after a bath.
No. Take those off. Why?
You don't need underpants under your pajama pants.
I felt I did. My grandmother told me I did.
When you're married, you can't wear underpants to bed.
Why? Is that a law like stop signs, like not stealing? Mermaids watched,
on my side; they wore tails made of glistening armor
that never came off. I wouldn't argue. Ok. He put me to bed
without my underpants, smug that my training had begun.
When the door shut, I went to my dresser drawer for underpants.
Gone. But my grandmother had zipped an extra pair in my sleep-over dog.
He underestimated us. Such drama over a small piece of cloth,
like the mermaids' bras they weren't allowed to wear, he said,
when the lights went out.