potential Hydrogen

The calico Shubunkin goldfish hovered motionless

over water lily gravel.

Two days later, I touched his side with my finger.

He was not startled.

I promised myself to tend to him, listless child’s hand,

after a full night of sleep

and dreamed him as anglerfish, huge, blood red

with bulging eyes.

Come morning, I found him floating on his side,

a wilted quarter moon,

desperate, sucking the surface of the pond,

upper gill working

like a blinking eye. Why? Starvation?  Smaller

than the other

more aggressive fish, always last to eat,

if at all. Disease?

If so, I thought to scoop him out at once to save

the school, but, cautious,

read it could be simply water chemistry. Hard to believe.

Four days ago,

pH was perfect. I quickly fumbled out a test tube,

filled it,

dropped five drops and shook. It turned blue, a nine,

far too alkaline.

Shit Shit Shit. Was it decaying leaves? Maybe. Ammonia?

No. The drop in heat?

I turned on air stones, poured in the necessary powders,

feared over-correction,

my specialty, a wild swing toward acidity that could shock

and kill all four gorgeous fish,

more important to me now than dill, tomatoes, carrots,

beets, kale, basil,

merlot lettuce. I stirred the pond with a net

and prayerless prayer

measured pH once more, pleased it had already dropped

to seven. Balanced

on my knees on a six-inch board bridging the length

of the almond-shaped pond,

I set my fingernails upon the yellowed leaves of water lettuce

and trailing nasturtium

mimicking lily pads. Driven, I pinched off leaf after leaf,

each disintegrating,

fish-killing culprit. Then, in my peripheral vision, a swish!

The fish—what?—stood up,

so to speak, righted himself, whirled into the depths

from the brink.

I named him Lazarus. I am no Jesus walking on water,

healing the sick,

raising the dead. This was no miracle—simply the power,

the potential

of hydrogen and hope to orchestrate breath.