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By Koon Woon

The goldfish in my bowl
turns into a carp each night.
Swimming in circles in the day,
regal, admired by emperors,
but each night, while I sleep,
it turns into silver, a dagger
cold and sharp, couched at one spot,
enough to frighten cats.
 
The rest of the furniture
squats in the cold and dark,
complains of being a lone man’s
furnishings, and plots a revolt.
I can hear myself snore, but not
their infidelity. Sometimes I wake
with a start; silently they move back
into their places.
 
I have been unpopular with myself,
pacing in my small, square room.
But my uncle said, “Even in a palace,
you can but sleep in one room.”
With this I become humble as a simple
preacher, saying, “I have no powers;
they emanate from God.”
With this I sleep soundly,
 
Fish or no fish, dagger or no dagger.
When I wake, my fish is gold,
it pleases me with a trail of bubbles.
My furniture has been loyal all night,
waiting to provide me comfort.
There was no conspiracy against a poor man.
With this I consider myself king.


Koon Woon, "Goldfish" from Water Chasing Water.  Copyright © 2013 by Koon Woon.  Reprinted by permission of Kaya Press.

Source: Water Chasing Water (Kaya Press, 2013)

  • Relationships

Poet Bio

Koon Woon
Born in a village near Canton, China, Koon Woon immigrated to Washington State in 1960. He is the publisher of Goldfish Press and the literary magazine Chrysanthemum and lives in Seattle. See More By This Poet

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