If I Lived in a Fishbowl

I.

Long arms flapping— not even enough
room to reach straight without
bumping fingertips
against hard glass— I blink
only from habit. The water pounding
my eyeballs leaves my lids
vestigial, eyelashes decoration like
the plastic plant tangled in manicured
toes. My cheeks bulge, but that’s from habit, too;
the slits at my throat wave silent salutations
with each bubbled breath. I sign slow
words with pruned fingers as we press
lip to lip through the glass.


II.

I ask would you be my friend
if I lived in a fishbowl, but
I already live in a bubble of glass.

Our love is magnified.