Big Fish / May Chong

The arapaima is a crowd favourite, caruncled

face cast in bronze older than any abrasion

upon your heart, sleek scorn

and red edges in motion, still no less proud

than the grouper across the way,

inscrutable, immeasurable as a father’s

shadow—if a father had fins

for tender touches

or tight slaps,

whichever they pleased.

In another tank floats a tapah,

bigger than storybooks, grinning gormless.

But you know. You have seen the teeth

in lights and acrylic, numerous

as any troubles filed fivefold.

Your heavy head would just fit

inside that willing mouth.

The sight of them pulls inside,

raises hairs and other things;

how small we are before them,

how soft and bruised

behind our glass.