The dress I wore at my aunt’s funeral was
               emerald like drowning foliage, a confused
river swishing several meters away from the coffin.
               All I can remember now
is the first poem I ever wrote for her, which began,
               there is a place, and went on to describe heaven.
I’d never seen someone dying
               before that silent walk through hospice,
when through an open door I heard
               a machine chugging words my tongue
will never repeat. I sat at the purple fish tank,
               and for thirty minutes wanted to tap
on the glass, to turn the bulbous eyes away.
               Fish don’t see. Fish live in five-second
moments. I wanted to tap, to force
               their attention. See this, remember
the ruckus of a finger smudging your world. Again.
               Louder, searing, blurring. Rattling your
scales, fins drooping, LOUDER, flee, stupid
               flesh, TAP, flesh, white and smeared
and bobbing bobbing bobbing. Still. I held
               my hands in my lap, vision glazed until
my mother walked over and confused me.