​

The Goldfish

​In the time of the beginning of the end
of my first marriage,  we lived on the ground floor
of a brownstone that was painted pale pink;
in back, we tended a small garden, enclosed
by high walls. 
 
In summer, we grew roses and tomatoes,
fed the fish in our small pond.  In winter,
my children and I saw our forgotten goldfish
beneath the ice of the pond, mouths gaping,
mandarin orange scales garish against the white.
 
In spring, they thawed out, like a resurrection,
like dreams of  what love once felt like.  That winter,
under the ice, they had just enough oxygen
to stay alive.    
**
​Published by Calyx Literary Journal 2017