PoetryBreak: Goldfish

Goldfish

BY KOON WOON

The goldfish in my bowl

turns into a carp each night.

Swimming in circles in the day,

regal, admired by emperors,

but each night, while I sleep,

it turns into silver, a dagger

cold and sharp, couched at one spot,

enough to frighten cats.

 

The rest of the furniture

squats in the cold and dark,

complains of being a lone man’s

furnishings, and plots a revolt.

I can hear myself snore, but not

their infidelity. Sometimes I wake

with a start; silently they move back

into their places.

 

I have been unpopular with myself,

pacing in my small, square room.

But my uncle said, “Even in a palace,

you can but sleep in one room.”

With this I become humble as a simple

preacher, saying, “I have no powers;

they emanate from God.”

With this I sleep soundly,

 

Fish or no fish, dagger or no dagger.

When I wake, my fish is gold,

it pleases me with a trail of bubbles.

My furniture has been loyal all night,

waiting to provide me comfort.

There was no conspiracy against a poor man.

With this I consider myself king.

Goldfish (M.A. Reilly, acrylic, ink, charcoal, collage papers, pencil, gesso, matte medium)