All you ever asked
of life
was thin little flakes
sprinkled frequently enough
so you could munch and munch
to your gentle little heart’s content.
At first I feared,
as your little belly swelled,
that you were egg-bound,
then that you were over-eating,
as your glide became a waddle,
and, alarmingly,
I no longer needed a net
to airlift you to the other tank
so the rest could eat in peace
and you would not burst:
I could just scoop you up
in my hands,
your soft, tubby little form,
and you,
too swollen to struggle,
but now I know,
also too weak.
And I thought
it’s because all you care about
is food.
When my sluggish soul realized
you were neither gravid
nor gourmande
but suffering from a fearful illness
I rushed
to purchase the paraphernalia for a cure,
but you could no longer wait,
nor even resist the filter,
grown stronger than you,
which locked you in its orbit,
so you could only linger there
gasping, helplessly.
So sudden.
Was it because I unjustly underfed you
in your last weeks?
Or failed to freshen your water enough?
Or discovered your ailment too late?
Or the world was just too much — or too little — for you?
Your waddle is still now.
You drift freely with the little whirl-pool.
I don’t know if you still are.
I don’t dare decide not.
And I don’t want to.
I squeeze your bloated little belly
gently, maybe I can expel the poison.
And soon I must umpire the learnèd paper
that confidently argues
that fish do not feel
nor see
nor suffer.
My own little lump of gold,
the only gold of value.
I won’t betray you again.
