<html aria-label="message body"><head><meta http-equiv="content-type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"></head><body style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;"><div dir="auto" style="overflow-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space; font-size: 22px;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Memory Fish</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Sometimes a flash</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">of silver muscle</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">turning against the current—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">sometimes a body,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">losing chunks of flesh.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Memories move</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">like salmon in the river.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Mostly they stay hidden,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">under the churn,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">in the deep green places</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">beyond my reach.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Now and then</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">something surfaces—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">a punch to my gut in third grade,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Jew boy,” they said;</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">a long hallway where the dark owned me,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">or sailing at night—stormy, scared—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">the lighthouse lost in fog.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I stand by the riverbank,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">casting—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">wanting to bring back:</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">my daughter riding on my shoulders—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">her hands always covered my eyes.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Or little me, arms lifted,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Uppy, uppy.”</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Once, wading the Rogue,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I came to a bend</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">where the river turned back</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">on itself.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">There in the spiral of current,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">a great salmon turned on his side,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">his body ragged,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">his tail slapping the water—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">slowly but loudly—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">one vacant eye toward the sky.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, nearing my own slow turn,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I think of that fish—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">the way he rested,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">spent, and yet still part of the water</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">that carried him.</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I am afraid</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I may not have</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">that much grace.</span><br><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">And I give thanks—</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">for what I’ve caught,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">and mourn what swam past,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">lost now,</span><br><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">washed out to sea.</span><br><br><span style="text-wrap-mode: wrap;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></span>- Lewis Buchner</div></body></html>