The White Koi 2007
One of the koi
Has all-white scales.
“He’s an albino,” an old woman says.
She sits in a wheelchair
Having found her way to the pond
On her own.
“I think it’s just a white variety,” I say.
“The eyes are not pink.”
Why does it matter?
Why do I need to correct this
Old woman I don’t know?
She’s here just like I am
Escaping the nursing home’s confines
Where antiseptic smells
Fail to mask underlying odors.
Defecation and death.
Escaping the boredom
And the waiting
For one or the other
To catch up.
I’ve brought my mother
Pushed her wheelchair.
Alone, she would not find the will or the way.
She is indifferent to the
Fresh air, sunlight, the koi pond.
We might as well be in the place’s
Unused Library, the shelves
Lined with Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.
Donated and warehoused because
They don’t have further value.
My mother’s decline was signaled by
Repeated questions
And lost emotions.
She showed no reaction
At the news my father would die.
Showed no interest
In being by his side,
Her husband of 49 years.
As he slipped away.
Her memory has been edited.
Condensed.
I have no patience
With falsity.
Not a good trait
For this current role.
Still, I correct genetic misinformation
About the white koi.
It’s not deficiency
But editing, called breeding.
And tell my mother
Her mother is not forgotten
Waiting in a hot car.
She’s gone.
We remain.
And I correct, though I can’t put back.
I strive to make here
More than a warehouse
At least.
For a person.
If not for abandoned books.
And a koi that the service
Couldn’t place in ponds
Of more vocal customers
In search of vibrant joy.
