pet store

i looked for dead fish 
in the blue tanks at the back
of the pet store. counted them
on my fingers, holding
the digits up to report back
to my father.
we were there to buy crickets
to feed to our grandfather
who slept in a knot
in the basement. 
bubbling miniature oceans.
found myself 
inside the tanks unable to breathe.
the wall sucking fish
giving a good side-eye to the world.
i spat colorful pebbles
from my mouth. everything is about
containment. who has 
crafted the wall 
& who finds it beautiful &
who is terrified of it.
i always imagined being rich
& buying all the aquariums.
loading them all into the back
of my father's jeep 
& driving to the river
to let the fish free. i made the mistake
of telling this to my father once.
he said, "they would all die
from the shock of the new water."
i told him he was wrong.
after all i did not die 
from all the different plastic worlds
i ended up in. my father's hands.
my school full of neon talking.
the kitchen where every vessel
was full of butter. if i could live
then why wouldn't they? a lesson
in survival poetics. 
i always left the pet store
with the ghosts of the counted fish.
a little flock of betas. a herd
of minnows. soft goldfish shadows.
my own stomach in a fishbowl. 
ceramic treasure chest & 
fake seaweed sitting at the bottom. 
a few times we took one home.
named them like holidays. 
"goodbye" & "forever midnight."
i put my face to the glass 
& said, "i will find a way
for us to both be pigeons."
the fish would look away.