A Fish Pond Floats Below a Fire Hydrant in Bed Stuy
Brandon tells me it’s an insane hill to die on; about
puddle guardians and fish doctors; I nurse ecosystems
of lost causes. Coax anguish into blood clots, irregular
spotting; my body escapes to a fog of steam—manufactured,
expensive. Between Tompkins and Hancock is less pond and
more puddle; 150 goldfish swim in two inches of bliss
Brandon calls it lousy culture war; an absurd clash of
neighborhood archetypes. Shells coil like treasures inside the
fish pond splattered in confetti pebbles. I coil recoil implode all
summer. Leaves turn greener. Names of the dead are mourned
over megaphones. I take a plunger at the squalid; a recurring nuisance.
I cannot tell you if I am happy. Let’s name the languishing cornucopia
Reddit overflows with discourse, advise of those who
use the term aquascaping. The hydrant trickles droplets
below like petals. I grieve the wilted begonias,
home-grown peaches molding in the pantry
Here are your outbursts expected and uninhibited
Here is a repulsed gentrifier with endless resources
Thirty-six fish disappear at nightfall in a rescue mission
Brandon alleges actions of misplaced white guilt.
Says the community fridge a few blocks away stays empty
We grieve the block the fish the night all destined for ruin
The proud guardians of the fish pond nail a sign into the adjacent tree
A veterinarian labels the fish feeders for other marine animals reminding
lives worth less are sacrificed for those superior and it is justified
Speculums pry me open in a loop and my cervix wincing in pain is justified
Meanwhile, the Promenade repurposes itself a fallacy; a decade up in
smokes since I ran by. I reuse the words ovarian, geriatric at weddings, nightclubs
One fish guardian claims he built a dream from flaw,
neglect and once others meddled with their good
intentions and kind hearts for fish the size of his
pinky his ego stood guard, said,
Tell me what you remember of clinging. Of insensible gusts.
He has been holding on for dear life since that day
The fish pond pesters me to build a thing worth saving
I tell Brandon I want to create something beautiful, lasting
Something that will outlive those with
a desire to feed it to animals dormant deep inside them
In Oaxaca I Am Mistaken as the Cleaner
A clown car of unpleasantries
emerges onto the shared rental balcony
No podemos entrar slurry from white American
mouths and thicken the air like wet cement
All nine people in the same wedding party did
was choose to leave behind nine sets of keys
and stomp into the sacred unknown of a city
like it were pillow forts they built at a sleepover
The gall of exceptionalism will make you shout
victimhood as loud as an obscenity without
ever taking notice
I fixate. I surrender.
Convince I did not swallow
anyone’s spare key from the lockbox
It begins with deflection the forgiveness
I simmer my body against red clay floors
I cannot pay my way
into an unwrinkled universe
but I witness it like a sacrifice
Real pearls fake gold true luster
Ring of mountains around Zapotec burials
Those who are now entombed burrowed and
built who infiltrate a thousand times
over pretend not to enter
The resident dive bar graffiti artist
scribbles:
ln heaven he thought there should be no limits
and I caution to everyone in the Lower East
Side shrieking
IT WILL NEVER LOVE YOU THE SAME
and to myself the Chrysler building
will only sparkle pretty like the
bubbles in my glass count
the number of drinks
the percentage off the total
the steps taken on the
Manhattan bridge
all impediments nettled
on the road to harbor
I want to give myself
permission to endure
despite the gutting
betrayals that
torment me despite
these hauntings of life
When my father’s village was plagued
by cholera outbreaks they did not know
the fix was to boil the
drinking water but the whole
village gathered and
repeated prayers in unison
night after night with a
hankering in their hearts for
a cure
so you best believe
I am destined to try a
wrong,
passionate
remedy or two in
this life for what
is sour the way
my people did
back then
Amatan Noor is a Bangladeshi writer based in Brooklyn, NY. Her poetry appears in Split This Rock, DIALOGIST, Thimble, No, Dear and elsewhere. Amatan’s work has been nominated for a pushcart prize. She is a Tin House alumnus. Amatan lives in Clinton Hill and is in an ongoing love affair with Fort Greene Park. She is the author of Not Guilty, her debut poetry collection (2023, Finishing Line Press).