salmon season

by Luc Le

(Auburn, California)

the way that time
curls back upon itself
like a fish hook.

the bends of a tributary vein 
running copper-stained salmon 
back to open water; 

the crooked kiss of a collarbone
that slides itself 
from shoulder to nape. 

last tuesday a wild-fire.
dirty light; 
reaper walk. 

ash falling lousy round the widow-maker;
heat rising through thin atmosphere
the way that it does. 

the way a river 
rolls back its jaws 
just before the flood—

a crescent moon; 
marrow
and spoiled milk.

the night breaking early up north: 
edge-flower, elder-berry, echo-heart— 

water running foam-white into rust;
a body filled 
with someone else’s blood

the way the earth 
swallows everything back 
in time.