Memory fish

My memories move
like salmon in the river—
sometimes a flash,
of silver muscle
turning against the current.

Mostly they stay hidden,
under the churn,
in the deep green places
I can’t see.

Now and then
something surfaces —
a punch in my gut in third grade
a long hallway where the dark owned me,
or sailing at night — no moon —
with only the sound of the waves on the hull,


I stand by the riverbank
casting —
not to catch,
but to watch
what chooses to rise.

Once, wading the Rogue,
I came to a bend
where the river turned back
on itself.
There in the spiral of current
a great salmon turned on his side,
his body ragged,
his tail slapping the water — 
slowly but loudly —
one vacant eye toward the sky,

Now, nearing my own slow turn,
I think of that fish —
the way he rested,
spent, and yet still part of the water
that carried him.

And I give thanks —
not for what I’ve caught,
but for what swam past
without needing to be named.