My son and I dived for that slippery
witch changed into a fish
To escape the meanderings we shared
as we sat on the bank
Of
the moving river and tried to
connect — but our words
Are not framed in each other’s history
and the silvery witch,
Bloated as she is with misunderstandings,
did not wish
To let us understand each other. She fled
the scene of that fallen idyll
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 its first
chance to caress him and I had
Not stumbled nor had we shared the
least moment of generational difficulty.
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