Fish with my son

 

My son, and I, dived for that witch changed into a fish

to escape the meanderings we shared as we sat beside

the river and tried to connect — but my son’s words are not

my words, not framed in my picture of history and the witch,

bloated as she was with understanding, did not wish to let 

us understand each other. She fled the scene of that idyllic afternoon

when we stopped by the river’s bank, cast words with fishing lines

and found the snags and tangles too much: The fish did not bite

so we two took up the chase instead for that shimmer of salmon gold,

went after the tail, fin and the legend that a salmon caught would

make the two of us wise enough be back again at that moment when

my son’s eyes looked up at me and I smiled, his smell still bright

as sunshine and my hand had only ever caressed him for I had

not said nor had we shared the least moment of difficulty.