Sunday, August 27, 2006


When the orange, family goldfish was buried
And wrapped in a bit of plastic
We dug a little hole
And unceremoniously covered
it in yellow limestone dirt.
We whispered no mass,
no Hail Mary's, no cry of an angel.
For hours we just sat and imagined
the darting back and forth
A hurricane of activity, we required
a response to our questioning,
a stare back, but nothing returned.

You became drowning goldfish,
dying in a bowl. The smell of
metal bike, leather-flesh burning,
funeral sky As I, realising I could
not talk, bent my head and
lowered my voice to a whisper,
he is death and so am I.

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