They’re not goldfish, she
stresses, her blue eyes
following their smooth, brocaded ballet
across water garden’s clear pond. She cries
suddenly, brief as a breeze, body sways
toward pool as if hypnotized. Then she kneels
beside it, pointing. See their
lip barbels,
those sharp, hooked whiskers?
I kneel by her, feel
her energy lightning through me. I tell
her I do see. But I’m blessing her glow.
She knows this. I want to speak long of my
artist friend who paints them, his latest show,
this one canvas: I mistook koi for bright
flames. Yet I don’t speak. She smiles, whispers, You
know what? I mistook them for bright
flames, too.
Roger Armbrust
January 8,
2014
