Fish Fry

Before I found her curled

like a giant muscular leaf

the old goldfish—flat orange

scales the size of fingernails

no longer a shifting glow

in the murky depth—

lay eggs in the lily pot

submerged like a watery nest

still, hovering, I feared, near death.

The huge male Shubunkin, orange and black

spotted, lay there too over the pot

and worry tested the water

chemistry, perfectly fine.

Faith in science unshaken

I went about my terrestrial days

until the morning I found their fry

funny name for a hatch

of tiny goldfish, more like mosquito larvae

or sea monkeys than fish

already flown the lily pot in open water.

I photographed them like a new grandmother.

Joy quickly rotted by next day’s discovery

their mother newly dead-eyed

stiff, already putting off a cloud

of particles, her babes

swimming there in the fog

filtering her death through tiny gills.

Next morning, already wary

of their father flicking angrily around

the pond like a prowling shark

looking for his mate, desperately alone

and hungry, they retreated to the roots

of aquatic lettuces, lacy floating foliage

of water celery drifting around

island planters, a forest in which

to hide, slowly outgrow, the size

of their father’s mouth.