Aquarium Blues

My daughter called the whales

elephants and proclaimed that water

was just another version of grass.

She pressed her cheek against the barrier

between us and thought how dolphins

were too smart for the show,

the sea lions could orchestrate a break

but decided the free meals worth it,

how octopuses were Nobel Prize laureates

waiting for the day they get reborn

with white collars and dress shoes.

Do you think they think of us?

Do you think they enjoy this?

And I knew the many horror stories,

the abuse and ever murder

on both sides of the splash.

An orca saved me the awkward moment

and drenched enough to temporarily shelf

any difficult discussions,

even the few I was having with myself.

They could do whatever they wanted, she said.

But they choose to be nice.

Do we?

Do we choose to be nice?

I wanted to stare out the window

and think in absence, but the highway

was homework enough.

I know the many species culled to extinction,

rivers that have been poisoned, diseased children

and the money made from their ailments.

My daughter didn’t know the details,

but she knew enough to know

all of it was true. Anything she could think of,

as if a genie had granted her three wishes.

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Brandon Shane is a poet and horticulturist born in Yokosuka, Japan. You can find his work in Argyle Literary Magazine, Berlin Literary Review, Acropolis Journal, Grim & Gilded, Heimat Review, The Mersey Review, and Prairie Home Mag, among many others. He will graduate from Cal State Long Beach with a degree in English.