Lucky Fish

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Lucky Fish

In the center of Chinatown nestles

a tiny pond where coral-colored

carps outgrow their regular size,

bulging bodies floating in circles

and cramping against each other.

In Chinese, carps are our lucky fish

who sport the garment of wealth and abundance.   

Their eyes glow fluorescent onyx,

their scales gleam like burnished carnelian. 

People feed them fried rice from leftovers,

a human diet to sate their taste buds.

A thin film of grease scatters with curling

froth and foam on the water’s surface.  

The fish keep growing, a mimicry

of pockets jammed with gold.

Mother tosses a quarter into the pond,

without making a wish. 

Any kind of luck, she says.

I watch the coin dip into a ripple and

slip onto the pillow of others, a backdrop

for the motif of coiling overweight fish.

At night, I dream that a carp chants like

a bright red trumpet and releases its pleasure

into my ears. I make out wishing phrases 恭喜发财 

and事事如意 that float like gold confetti.  

I try to bunch the fish in my fist, but it wrings

with a spasm and squirms out of my white knuckles.

It steals down into the shallow current of comfort,

where its underbelly rubs the constellation of coins.