to me, red bellied body halved on soaked split
cedar, lemon slices lining bony fillet flesh,
fresh sprigs of thyme scattered as mountain
pine paper needles over river. The fish enters
the deep cavern of the stove and what is left
of the feast of its life, recognizable in bright
flashes of silver, becomes lost to silver, char
burns its beautiful fin tip ends before marrow
of Sockeye life falls into my mouth. And my
mouth drops open as ocean returns to narrow
river mouth, and I am hooked, pulled falling
into this mountain river of time. And for brief
moment doesn’t it feel like my death.
Something is telling me this feels like death.
My own dark body surging downward as feed.
This river. Endlessly. My heavy shoulders.
Tight neck. So long aching charred back. Ready
to split myself open upon hook. Ready for
splitting cedar tree. Ready for the gods to eat me.
