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.