ODE TO A SALMON WITHOUT A HEAD
To the king of the bay
silver cream bodies still
congest my dreaming you
engender the technique of
dreaming each night I sleep
to the frigid sea-spray
slapping my cheek towards what
multiplies along the curvature
horizon blue one hundred hours
of sunlight refract off fish scales
eight millimeters of neoprene
and the sing-song hydraulics
moaning for the genesis of
coming you beckoned me
to the mouth of the river
the first salmon I ever caught
had one hundred heads
no gill opening in no cheek
to slip my finger through
I didn’t know where to hold you
the omen must not be good
but now is no time for speculation
one hand gently splayed across
the fragile tail my middle ring
and pointer finger along the
inner lining of your belly thumb
pressed on/against your chest
hollering hell yeah and grinning
I raised you to the red sky
over the midnight sun.