i stood alone in the shed of a man
i befriended when i was 15 years old.
he, allowing me access; his neatly organized shed,
its faint smell of sweetness, marijuana
and memory. drying pieces of coho salmon
we, but mostly he,
had caught a few days prior, preparing
them for the racks of his smoking house. i am
cocooned in a vivd roundness of undulating
breath; the world around me
blurred by falling rain, the river
we visited, full of Fall fish. coho and
humpy and dog amidst exhausted yellow
alder leaves. dog salmon growing purple and
green, their Fall colors of completion. pink
salmon, growing humped back and hooked
jaw, as they flutter towards quiet beds of birth
and death. the wide speckled back of coho,
flashing electric sea-bright silver amongst the tired
and muted. the leaves right now, back
in a Vermont of my peculiar past, they
are ecstatic in their revelry of season; explosively
they shed chlorophyll, insistent in their reminder
that failure is often fantastic. and dog salmon in river,
blooming bars of purple and green. and
these memories swimming in our vivid cocoons, flashing
bright and brief. with practice we attain skill; aiming
our hooks for that which is still firm and
pulsing, hoping to keep ourselves fatted and warm.
all around us fades with such splendid clarity. my friend
has kept me warm with the quiet river of his love,
through all my years of freeze and thaw. i had
hoped to be brilliant in my failing, instead
i am humped and hooked, enshrined
behind bars. purple and green like
bruise. like fading bruise.
zakschafer.com 