by Hannah Lemons
Adopted on a whim, you were
bagged and handed over—
considering the lilies of the field,
did you feel afraid, of little faith?
Enunciating silent “oh”s
filtering life across tiny gills,
Gilbert, you were christened:
hackneyed alliteration & hodgepodge accommodation
in a bowl, in a bathroom—say it’s in
jest—you ingest flakes that
keep you gaping, staring down another
long, double-barreled day
metamorphosing the same weekly water.
Nothing changing, just
oxygenating, opening, gating,
passing the time
quantifying your existence with
rueful flakes left floating:
squeezing the most out of
the care, the upkeep, the
uglier you make the tank, the greater your
value, because to be worked for makes you
worth more, right?—you’re not gold but
xanthic, close enough.
You don’t forget, you’re not forgotten.
Zoom out enough and the world is mostly water anyways.
Hannah Lemons studies geology and English at the University of Alabama and has recently begun making peace with the ghosts of childhood pets.