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.