1.
Her months
of drawings, pressure ; reminders
to our
whispered ears, to
plastering the fridge with several clones
of her
single magnet-held artwork: “fish,” she writes, above
each sketch
of same, “I want one.” I, for one,
hesitate to introduce a new character
into this
household menagerie, with the increased risk
of cancelling
the whole business. Richie’s brother Chuck
from Happy Days’ first season, or to simply
jump the shark.
2.
She wants
a fish. Demands: a pet
of her own,
to share
with younger sister,
since I
refuse to entertain a dog ; our
cat
would
tarnish, and my difficulty with lack
of unaccompanied urban territory. A dog
requires
an excess unavailable. I
originated
from a
farm ,
after all, where dogs
possess
the amplitude
to
roam. Preferring,
also, not
a defecated
yard. Rose wants a fish, she
wants
a fish, she wants a fish. In case
the
message was unclear. She offers
promises
of pet care and routine,
hoping someone will believe her.
3.
Bellwether, prep; to establish and assemble her aquarium
before any fish might land. Rose plucks
a
castle, mermaid , small plastic greenery; harvests
two
small bags of coloured gravel. Her bearing, shifts,
she vibrates,
crosswise; strums PetSmart shelves.
Each step
a stop, a break in linearity. She laughs,
ahead
of her own debate. With fresh tank sidelining
her seasonal
e-learning retreat
of former dining room, she holds: the soon-keeper
of the sacred fish.
4.
This
biological filter media.
Her fishless
ten-gallon
vessel, which will be,
soon
enough. How water catches sound
in
motion, motion. Apparently boundless. This approximation
of a single misstep, stanza,
verset, word. Once home, and set , she stares, across
this dimpled
glow of light-emitting diode
into oxygenating
water.
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