Two Poems

Son as Naked Mole Rat

Remember Kim Possible, that third-wave
feminist cartoon, where the mention of Rufus,

Ron Stoppable's naked mole rat,
his pocket pet for the ages,

sent you into tunnels
of laughter? Maybe it was the word

naked, a gas to every eight-year-old,
or maybe it was your imagining

of how the creature came to be, electrified,
you thought, in a lightning strike,

singed hairless, tiny eyes closed, rolled
in wrinkles, the perpetual old soul,

and that's the romance
of naked mole rats— once an adult, they never age,

like you, twenty-five now, who still talks
Disney like the characters sit beside you

on the couch, members of your colony,
front incisors digging mile after mile to find home,

defending your territory
with an unexpected ferocity,

I didn't know until your remaking:
your determination to transition, ignore

the subterranean chatter, flash your teeth
at evil doers, make yourself

impervious to pain. Heterocephalus glaber,
sand puppy, son – snakes underestimate you

at their own peril.

 

The Fish Tank

Back in the seventies, my dad, a diligent nine-to-fiver, had few hobbies
but started an aquarium: black mollies, kissing gourami,
swordfish, guppies. He liked the live bearers, put a footstool

in front of the tank and watched them for hours. He could spot a pregnancy
before her belly bulged, knew when the lollygagger was going to die,
predicted which of the pugnacious, now called bullies,

would have a swath torn from his fancy foxtail
for bad behavior. Sometimes the cat would lift the lid, and one of them
would be in pieces on the gold shag. And sometimes, while at work,

he called on mom to net the microscopic newborns before
they were cannibalized, yet he never lingered on the losses, researching
compatibilities and then running to the pet store for a new addition.

While we lazed nearby on the couch watching The Brady Bunch, he remained
with them, his glasses high on his nose, studying their back and forth,
hunting down a treasure chest no one else could open.