Goldfish Memory

When you brought me home
from the carnival, your wife thought I was precious.
Such a large tail, she murmured, her golden hair
twirling between her fingers.
Such small eyes.
Is she a girl or a boy?

I bubbled at the mouth.
But you kept me safe, kept my glass clean.
Close.
We watched things, as you raised me
up, faced me to your bedroom wall.
Projections of cars racing reds, spaceships, & cowboys
crashing cathedrals. Stained glass everywhere.

On Tuesdays & Thursdays, you fed me. Made sure
I was kept wet. I watched you at the stovetop as you threw
handfuls of red peppers at the fire. As you fed your wife
your prized stir-fry. Watched you blow each other’s
noses. My eyes watered. It was Sunday. When I opened
& closed my mouth, you seemed sorry, noticed
my hunger. Gently told me I could eat
or stay pretty.

I moved my mouth away.

Quickly, I forgot. Couldn’t stop myself from touching
my lips to the glass every time you switched
the lights off. I prayed for space to grow
thinner, for the distance between us to lessen.

The nights she went out, you stuck your fingers inside
my water, ran them along my gills.
Told me to hold
quiet, breathless.

Back & forth.
You rambled, dreamt of moving West,
starting a new life, together, one that would make me
ever so golden. I wish that was how it ended, with your fingers
stuck between my teeth. The windows shut.

But she grew bigger, & I couldn’t turn
any smaller, & soon there wasn’t
air for us both. No choice but to empty me
outside. Look me in the eye, I tried to say,
just this once, but my bubbles
never sufficed.

I slammed my fins to the surface, splattered the streets
with your water. As the sirens sped past,
I pinned my body against glass, sucking up
the seconds to forgetting.