Fish Tank Not able to contain my curiosity, I positioned myself upwards to peer over, view and study the fish in the blue plastic tub waiting to be put back in the tank. They didn't move. Not one was swimming. They must know that it is winter and all the streets and sidewalks are smeared in ice inviting even rocks and grass blades to slip out of balance. They must feel my shadow, dark, looming over and pretend like I used to sometimes when the light flicked on to be sleeping. The blue rocks at the bottom of the large tank shimmer and stay sunk and stuck to each other, the force of the water threatening to up heave them if they shift or sparkle less or more, to take away from the waters' own glory. They are poured back, and the look in their eyes tells nothing. They don't flutter, confused, like a bird who flew in and was swept out with a broom while the people chirped and gazed at the wonder of a bird indoors. It is an unspoken law. The same that wakes us up and puts us to rest at moon's shinning. We can fill a space in a corner with a fish tank so we don't feel so alone or trapped as we are, as they are, in this space too small for ourselves.
Janet Wright's Questions:
-Does the last stanza stay fluid with the rest of the poem, or does it deflate the whole meaning and image by being too blunt?
-In the second stanza, do the lines about pretending to be asleep seem arranged correctly, or does the reader get lost in the length of the statement?
-Are the line breaks too constant, or do they help the reader separate the sounds and ideas?