A local man leans over the gangplank and says there is a fish yay big just between the ferry and the pier. I peer over and he says “it’s gone” which also means “there is nothing” in Cantonese.
Tonight there is not nothing. And for the past few days my head has been a fishbowl. It is swirling. Lucky for me there is a lid to keep everything from sloshing all over the place. The fish are friendly, if not tropical. Colorful things that you want to stare at for a long time but something tells you that you probably should not.
I have stopped listening to music for the past few days because I do not want to disturb the fish, to overexcite or overindulge them. They can’t stay here forever.
My flat is an aquarium too, the air conditioners and dehumidifier are water filters keeping the walls clean and fresh. I sink into bed and let the fish swirl. I think about the trans person at the open mic in a basement on Wyndham Street tonight who read a poem they wrote for their younger sister, celebrating how they could finally tell them who they really are, how proud they are to call them their younger sister. I hope she gets to hear it. I think about my younger brother. Last I heard he was working in an Amazon warehouse from 9pm-6am. I should write a poem celebrating him. I would let him hear it.
The fish continue to swirl. I count the breakups I have heard about in the past two weeks. Five. I think about whether it is all to do with the slowing of the pandemic— this strange in-between we are living through here in Hong Kong. Another fishbowl. Before long, I conclude that this is an explanation as profound as it is unlikely. The only thing connecting it all is the month. It is July still. That much is certain. And the aquarium continues to hum.