Poem: May 8, 2019

This Is How Hitler Happened

The goldfish you brought home 

to our apartment from a night out 

at the fair with your mother's parents

swam like mad in its thin plastic bag, 

filled with unnaturally blue water, 

the color of mouthwash or Windex.

There ought to have been some rules 

written into the divorce decree to cover 

situations like this, but there you were, 

smiling and sticky and fascinated at six 

and three, so we dumped our new pet 

into the only workable receptacle I had-

a Lenox crystal bowl that had somehow 

made it into my pile during the dividing. 

Seriously, I didn't expect the creature 

to last. It came from a festival game.

In blue water. We set it in the kitchen

next to the stove with the broken burner. 

We didn't give it a name, and to my 

knowledge,  we never fed it. We certainly 

never went out of our way to purchase 

real fish food that we could shake 

like seasoning into its leaded home. 

When the water evaporated about half-

way down the bowl, I'd run it under the tap, 

unleashing a cloud of filth that would 

eventually settle- a cruel existence 

that lasted a stunning nine months.

I know I could have ended the waiting,

poured the whole mess into the toilet 

or through the disposal during one 

of the long stretches you spent at 

your mother's house, but I was afraid 

to face it, to face you, to explain, and 

I think I needed something to hate.  

At night, alone in the kitchen, I would 

stare into the bowl and ask, "Why 

don't you die?" It's weird that I used 

to think that story was funny.