i said: my poor fish
my favorite pink one, the genetically bred one, the one
there is only one of: has something
(red) coming out of her.
i have read about this! they can miscarry or
abort their young (just like me) oh!
the fish, my favorite fish.
so i sit and watched for hours, the thing -
the thing fell off and she swam up to the surface (hello!)
and rested in the tendrils of green.
but – then i could not find her, the next morning
or later – haunted by the perpetual thought
of her children eating her flesh.
it’s natural: i said, and i believe it is true -
but i did not like the thought that in the night
(poof!) and she is gone.
later i found her, upside down, between two rocks.
big, channeling quartz, beautiful.
she was beautiful – perfectly pink, a wag of black
and oh(!) those stripes – but
d
e
a
d
(and i got to say thank you)
A man’s dying is more the survivors’ affair than his own.
- Thomas Mann
