Salmon Ladder at the Government Locks, Seattle
For Pat Thenell
In an underground room, through windows
green with the thickness of glass and Shilshole
Bay, we watch the salmon pass, as though
their climb back to the rivers hinged on choice
and not the thin, clear message of the blood.
Teenagers, mothers with infants, anglers
who can't believe so many fish this size
could have eluded them through all those days
in August, teachers who know salmon lore
from social studies class, casual tourists-
what do we say to salmon, caught by surprise
on their turf, their eyes fixing us, those
dictionary definitions of eyes? How not seem
fatuous, vague, ingratiating, like telling
a famous poet how much you admire his work?
Our words, like our lures, would be lost
on these veteran lunkers that glide past,
grasping no thought but the one that reels them
in, their tails flicking froth, their silver
sides cross-hatched with survival. And still
we stand here, embarrassed almost, as if viewing
home movies of ourselves as children-no
soundtrack, just our lost, vulnerable bodies
come back to remind us: history, which watches
us move our lips, isn't paying attention.
Structure
26 lines · 6 stanzas