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Is there a poem in the death

of a desperate goldfish that had

lost a few scales and perhaps

saw the writing in the water?

Suicide. Dying to get to ...

A jihadist. But gravity.

What goes up.

Chips must’ve made a lovely arc

then got wedged into a folded

umbrella. One of three

in a dry Moroccan vase

that became an unlikely

coffin beside the fish bowl.

It was only after breakfast

that we noticed some body

missing. My paternal grand-

mother noticed a rifle missing

after breakfast one day long

ago. That’s how granddad

got out of here. Quick as

a dive into an umbrella.

So bold little fish, you must

live on, not in Heaven or Hell

or, um, Brellaland but right

here in the momentary flow

of these verses because

I couldn’t simply let you go.