the butterfly fish

Imagine that you are a butterfly fish
approaching a sea anemone
because you want to nibble
its tentacles.

Then you see a clown fish
lurking in the darks
of the host reef,
and you’re like “Oh shit!”

and swim like crazy in the opposite direction.
A league or so down the way
you begin to reflect on what just happened.
You’re a butterfly fish.

You just crapped your pants
at the sight of a clown fish.
And yet, you think, this is life:
this is what it’s all about.

You can console yourself that way
for only so long, though. At some point you,
like so many other butterfly fish, begin to hate yourself.
Maybe you take it out in passive-aggressive ways

on other fish.
Maybe you become religious.
Maybe in prayer you find the “other”
that gives you a sense of purpose

that transcends the foolish soap opera
your life has become. You imagine going to heaven,
where anemone tentacles wiggle undefended,
and the reefs, they say, are paved with gold.

Ideally these transcendent thoughts make you a generous
butterfly fish, full of spirit and compassion.
But it’s possible, too, that you become self-righteous—
as if, in your supreme ability to contextualize

the whole clown fish thing, you are better than others.
But still. You are a butterfly fish.
It would suit you
to remember that.