Goldfish, and: Gold Donkey

Goldfish

Sometimes a ping pong ballricochets in the improbable

honeycomb of fishbowls—liplip—before rimming out

and you are grateful to physicsfor saving you from having to

adopt a distressed carnival petand send your child off

on her first, slowpilgrimage to grief.

But sometimes a package dealleaves you stuck with a full

bucket of balls. You put a littleEnglish on a throw, and the wind’s

sorcery provides a direct hit,the splash unnerving the skittish

creature your child declaresis a girl named Marvin.

Eighty dollars laterMarvin is in an aquarium

on your child’s dresserdarting in all that water,

all that LED light. Sometimesdiagnoses of shock proliferate

for one who no longer recognizesthe system in which she lives—

lack of appetite, bottom sitting,black spots, skin flukes,

slow mouth and gill movement,a decline from golden sheen

to sallow white—until a protective impulse

grows animal in your core.Sometimes there’s a protest on the radio

when you enter your child’s roomto retrieve her ladybug rain boots

and find your wife in her bathrobesitting on the bed alone, watching

Marvin swallow a descending flakeand there’s no need to ask why.

Gold Donkey

—Cripple Creek, Colorado

The canary in the gold minespent her nights above groundand days 1000 feet downthe same cool shaftI descend in a metal cageto the crosscuts and driftsblasted into Independence Lodeand hung in her little cagelow between ore cart wheelswhere she could die sacrificiallyin an updraft of monoxide.

But the donkey in the gold minewas born down here, and hermother before her, a lineageaccustomed to hauling rockwith flecks of quartz and goldthrough blackness interruptedonly by a candle strappedto the mucker’s hator a calcium carbide lamphot with acetylene flamethat leapt at the wind of a sledge,burnt off a tenderfoot’s eyebrowsand singed a black starinto the donkey’s hide.

A politician legislated lightinto the donkey’s livesbut the asses kicked like madwhen the nippers—kidsat 5 cents a shift—strung themfrom the cage’s base in slingsand sent them up the shaftinto sun they’d never known.Like all good ideas, this oneburnt out the retinas in seconds.

While I’m below, a sunset above.I rise along a wall of oxidized ironthe color of tobacco spit, emerge.There are twelve donkeys at largein town, the bartender says, directdescendants of those from below.I search for them for an hourbut find only a coyote trottingthe Family Dollar parking lot.

In rain, in the donkeys’ honor,I choose from the strip of casinosThe Brass Ass, wade throughthe usual sad cases to roulette.At the only game with no strategymy only job is to bet on black, odd,and constellations of birthdaysthen wait like an ass for the houseto place the dolly and rake my chips.

The dealer spins the ballagainst the spinning wheeland sweeps her arm to end all bets.The bottled water I ordered arrives.The brand is Eldorado. The ball fallsinto 29 black. I win hundreds.When a donkey bucked and contortedhard enough to slip free on ascentit plummeted like a bullet reversingto explode in its own chamber.Chips in stacks float to me on felt.They are not gold but powder blue.The ball falls into 15 black. Again,I win. When a donkey fell it fellto the nippers at the bottomto clean up the mess.