That empty goldfish bowl.
That abandoned microcosm.
Those tiny smudges where I once pressed my nose.
That clinking of coins. That magic claw and purple bear.
Those chubby hands clenched, diving,
crashing every time.
That holiday. Those jarring shouts.
Those fragments of glass in a fortress of untouched green beans.
That cellophane prize. Those "cancer sticks."
That long way home. That breathy exchange.
Those freshly flowered panties that littered the floor.
That honest mirror and that lying smile.
That sallow surface of skin.
Those colorful candies, bitter and smooth.
That just one,
Then that one more.
That ecstasy of stupor.
That porcelain crown.
That hole in a bucket that never fills.
That hollow place,
Dark and damp,
Where innocence once slept.
That shallow goldfish grave
That I swore, if I tried,
I could fit into,
That in that moment I was small enough.

At night,
I am a fish.
Gutted, eyes wide open,
I ponder the popcorn ceiling
Searching for shapes and faces of presidents.
I lie naked,
Nipples perked by biting, acrid air.
Gas mask breathing.
Chicken skin.
Eyeballs swollen and overexposed,
I wait for the cousin of death,
probing silently my scabby hook
and my clammy existence.