If we were salmon,
you would be King -
three feet long,
coveted, beautiful, aggressive.
And I would be Chum –
silver green, smaller,
traveling from the Yukon to the Pacific and back again
only
to glisten in your wake.
If we were salmon,
we would return
home
to the exact curve in the river
where we were born.
Yet you and I keep our distance.
Some nights,
my wide eyes looking at you,
you swim in imagination –
a mansion in Des Moines and a plea:
“Come with me.”
But we know better
than to go home
together.
If we were salmon
traveling from the Yukon to the Pacific and back again,
we would spawn,
me depositing thousands of orange roe
you fertilizing and protecting them.
And then I would die,
floating to the river’s edge
only
to be ravaged
by Grizzly, by eagles,
by ravens, by crows.
No longer ravaged by you, but
I recognize
I have been dying for years.
If we were salmon -
Me and you -
Chum and King –
we would be of different species
so I wouldn’t follow you,
traveling from the Yukon to the Pacific and back again,
for you we would know better
than to be together.
