Where are the Goldfish?
by Sarah Thow
Light was streaming through their circular
glass home as they propelled through
their luminous whitening water whirling with
fresh filth. Their bodies bobbed at the surface–
thick and blazing–overfed and orange. The charming
pair, perhaps a couple, greeted me; with all opaque fishy
fingers they waved–taunting me. I heard them kiss-kiss-kiss
the crust, attempting to lure me in, like a couple of dense strangers
desperately trying to win over some seemingly dumb domesticated
animal. I ignored their pleas–the ones often mistaken for affection.
And the scaly set eventually sunk back into the six inch depths. But
after looping the perimeter once, twice, thrice–four times–they
rose and repeated their request. They bobbed and they kissed
that filthy white water and that sound, the sound of the duo's
slimy synchronized smacking lips–their relentless double
determination–it repulsed–it utterly disgusted me.
And instead of feeding them as they wished, I fed
them to a larger bowl of whirling, whitening
water. With a pour, push, and flush,
the toilet soon choke-choke-
choked on their chubby ginger bodies.