Memory Fish - Lewis Buchner

[Lawrence Robinson]

Memory Fish

Sometimes a flash
of silver muscle
turning against the current—
sometimes a body,
losing chunks of flesh.
Memories move
like salmon in the river.

Mostly they stay hidden,
under the churn,
in the deep green places
beyond my reach.

Now and then
something surfaces—
a punch to my gut in third grade,
“Jew boy,” they said;
a long hallway where the dark owned me,
or sailing at night—stormy, scared—
the lighthouse lost in fog.

I stand by the riverbank,
casting—
wanting to bring back:
my daughter riding on my shoulders—
her hands always covered my eyes.
Or little me, arms lifted,
“Uppy, uppy.”

Once, wading the Rogue,
I came to a bend
where the river turned back
on itself.
There in the spiral of current,
a great salmon turned on his side,
his body ragged,
his tail slapping the water—
slowly but loudly—
one vacant eye toward the sky.

Now, nearing my own slow turn,
I think of that fish—
the way he rested,
spent, and yet still part of the water
that carried him.
I am afraid
I may not have
that much grace.

And I give thanks—
for what I’ve caught,
and mourn what swam past,
lost now,
washed out to sea.

	- Lewis Buchner
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