bags of goldfish

you bring home an average 
goldfish in a clear plastic 
bag. we buy a bowl & fill
it with those little multi-color
pebbles: pinks & teals. the stones seem
almost edible. in the middle of 
the night you get up to stare
at the goldfish, to watch him.
i find you again & again, 
legs crossed on the floor 
before the bowl. i stand
in the doorway, i let 
you have your time with him
& when you come back to bed
you turn to me & say that
he's lonely. that he circles
the bowl each day 
in search of another goldfish.
this sounds ridiculous to me.
i have also watched the goldish,
i've seen him try to nibble
on the aquarium stones,
his suction mouthing 
puckered around a hunk of
teal. you bring home more,
at first just another bag
like the first. this goldfish
has a feathery tail & we 
add her to the tank. they dance
with each other. we both
begin to believe they're
in love but you stay up
day after day, insisting that
we need more. more goldfish.
you plug the sinks & fill them
with water & then them goldfish.
the bath tub. every single glass
of water. i wonder what i've done
wrong. if i should have made
you come back to bed & not
watch the goldfish. the first
one made you do it. i worry
that you don't love me anymore,
that all you care about is
orange bodies & round glossy eyes.
i think that maybe i should
get rid of the goldfish
but instead i find the first
one. he's solitary in his bowl, again.
i tell him about the carnival,
how we tossed ping pong balls 
at tiny bowls to win fish.
it's a confession. he turns around
as if to say "you don't mean that,
you're not sorry."
i don't know if i'm sorry 
or not. i stand up. was
this always what you want?
one foot at a time i get 
into the bowl with him,
he wriggles around, writhing
until we both succumb to 
proximity. i circle the bowl 
& i think, "when she comes
home she will come 
to watch me."