has to do with Max and Nemo
scarcely out of their plastic bag three weeks ago
and into our new fishbowl
when Nemo started swelling up,
spiking pineapple fins and lying sideways
like a drunk in a gutter
lipping some foul-mouthed shanty to the moon.
‘Dropsy,' Ed in the Pet Centre said, who,
three weeks ago, swore they could live fifteen years.
‘Put him in the freezer. Kill him quick.
Don't leave him in the bowl to rot
or the other one will eat him and die too.'
I buy drops instead that cost
what three new goldfish would.
Eve makes a Get Well Nemo card
and talks to him when she passes,
calling him ‘little guy' and ‘goldilocks',
playing ‘Für Nemo' on her keyboard.
I don't know. Max, I think, fine-tunes
his hunger and has a bloodless, sly look
to him now. He knows I'm on to him.
I tap the glass, shoo him away
whenever I see him closing in
on Nemo's wide-eyed slump
but I can't stand sentinel all night.
I'm in the kitchen when I hear the shout,
‘Come up, see what's going on.'
I take the stairs two at a time,
ordering the right words in my head:
Choice … Fault … Nature … Destiny.
Eve's face is level with the fish
and behind the bowl so it's magnified,
amazed like an open moon.
‘Max is nudging Nemo', she says.
‘He's helping him turn round.'