My family keeps on giving me poetry.

I come downstairs, set my little She-beta fish
on the kitchen counter.

I begin to layer on clothing
to battle the extreme of white outside
and call out to my mother:
I wish I were a fish.

Why?

I clasp my hands together and squeeze my face
squiggling-dance type motion with scarves falling off:
So that I could swim like this and
float in the air.

Think of how exciting life would be confined to that small,
glass thing.

But, think away from fish suburbia,
think of the freedom of swim in the natural world!

Okay.
But if you were a fish,
you'd end up in a jar.