Summer 2025 - Vol. 22, Issue 3

In a poem about a goldfish,

               I eat little flakes of brine shrimp and lecithin.

               I catch them, floating, on the edge of my lip,

               and I do not forget to eat until 3pm

               and then wolf down a peanut butter sandwich.

In a poem about a goldfish,

               I hover in my rock cave for hours,

               making only slight flutters of my fins,

               doing nothing much more than gulping,

               without a concerned friend

               phoning the police, or my mom –

               at worst I get a tap on the glass.

In a poem about a goldfish,

               I grow to the size of my tank,

               and no further.

In a poem about a goldfish,

               it is understood that I

               will be limited by the bowl that contains me.

In a poem about a goldfish,

               I am a pretty thing on the counter.

In a poem about a goldfish,

               No one will be surprised when I die.

In a poem about a goldfish,

               I struggle for breath the same as always

               When the blue plastic net scoops me out

               And deposits me in a temporary container.

               I thrash about my interim confinement.

               I threaten to leap to the floor.

               I watch and worry and gulp and wait

               Until I’m back in my rock cave again.

               Muddled brown plastic.

               Too-bright leaves.

               And fish flakes,

               Snowing down on me once more.