Sky was glowering so thick that day in Keokuk
I knew none of us is loved. The town seemed
one long mill. The mill seemed old as mountains,
dark alps I remember in the war, dim air
full of bombers and the land beneath
a map of land from altitude.
The color made me cold. The homes that nothing
I was certain happened in stood mute so long
I imagined bad things happened in some mind.
I’m sure I saw a river there. I always am.
Even in desert where the parched town stands
abandoned to a spatial flow. If my
memory hoards decrepit boats it also still loves
clustered salmon climbing the Duwamish foggy dawn.
I hear the salmon roll the air and slip
back in. I hear the lost tug tooting ‘help’
at Alki Point. When high tide creaks, the ray
of hope piles up like seawalls in the fog.
My Montana plates are signals. Yes, it’s true
about the hunting. Better still, the mountains
wild with names. My favorite range: The Crazies.
Mad land opens where you run. Your gaze
must give the rescue team a chance to grow
on the horizon, framed in gold. How eagles
shift above me in the canyons. How Indians
remind me of the cattails I once fashioned
into arrows. I shot them at a friend and hid.
Listen, friends in war, dear salmon, dear old friends,
batter the factory down and live with famine,
your light heads cruising through the rubble,
Keokuk destroyed by bad prayers in the raid.
I’ve toured Seattle postwar days like this,
the districts indistinct, the aged girls giving way
to teen-age duplicates, my hair the color
I was frightened of in war. The ones who died
ride with me. They sing raw anthems you can’t hear.