Salmon

　　　　by Kim Addonizio

　　　　 In this shallow creek

　　　　 they flop and writhe forward as the dead

　　　　 float back toward them. Oh， I know

　　　　 what I should say： fierce burning in the body

　　　　 as her eggs burst free， milky cloud

　　　　 of sperm as he quickens them. I should stand

　　　　 on the bridge with my camera，

　　　　 frame the white froth of rapids where one

　　　　 arcs up for an instant in its final grace.

　　　　 But I have to go down among

　　　　 the rocks the glacier left

　　　　 and squat at the edge of the water

　　　　 where a stinking pile of them lies，

　　　　 where one crow balances and sinks

　　　　 its beak into a gelid eye.

　　　　 I have to study the small holes

　　　　 gouged into their skin， their useless gills，

　　　　 their gowns of black flies. I can't

　　　　 make them sing. I want to，

　　　　 but all they do is open

　　　　 their mouths a little wider

　　　　 so the water pours in

　　　　 until I feel like I'm drowning.

　　　　 On the bridge the tour bus waits

　　　　 and someone waves， and calls down

　　　　 It's time， and the current keeps lifting

　　　　 dirt from the bottom to cover the eggs.