I am having dinner with a goldfish.
It is not a dream, my eyes are open,
the fish is looking at me, swirling
solicitous of my solitude.
It seemed rude to refuse the waiter
approaching with the fish in a bowl,
as if I were some character in a
The fish sizes up my curries and naan,
I eyeball its buoyant swishes,
our body language slides into
I raise my fork
and something spasms
a flash of molten gold rises
light cascades in the fish’s wake,
an improbable message
making its escape.