Goldfish Are Ordinary

Goldfish Are Ordinary

Stacie Cassarino

At the pet store on Court Street,

I search for the perfect fish.

The black moor, the blue damsel,

cichlids and neons. Something

to distract your sadness, something

you don't need to love you back.

Maybe a goldfish, the flaring tail,

orange, red-capped, pearled body,

the darting translucence? Goldfish

are ordinary, the boy selling fish

says to me. I turn back to the tank,

all of this grace and brilliance,

such simplicity the self could fail

to see. In three months I'll leave

this city. Today, a chill in the air,

you're reading Beckett fifty blocks

away, I'm looking at the orphaned

bodies of fish, undulant and gold fervor.

Do you want to see aggression?

the boy asks, holding a purple beta fish

to the light while dropping handfuls

of minnows into the bowl. He says,

I know you're a girl and all

but sometimes it's good to see.

Outside, in the rain, we love

with our hands tied,

while things tear away at us.