Wild Salmon Again
Decades ago, one
of my cousins—
I don't remember
whom—turned
that broken 1950s
refrigerator into
a salmon smoker.
Unused for many
years and missing
its door for
safety's sake,
that fridge is
charred black
and sits still
in our backyard,
waiting for us
salmon Indians
to become
salmon Indians
again. We used
to be wild
and sinewy
with hunger
but we're tame
and comfortable
now. O, to hold
the spear and net
again. O, to smoke
salmon in that
old fridge again.
O, to barely
survive our hunger
but to thank God
for our hunger.
Don't you know
that hunger is
prayer? Hunger is
prayer. O, to be
the Indians diving
to the bottom
of the river
then rising, rising
in search, in search
of freedom, of free-
dom and air.
I lived in Spokane, then in Klamath Falls, now on the Rogue, but I am now watching the salmon return and watching the local kids from the Klamath tribe and others float the river from the Headwaters to the Sea. Beautiful words, and thank you.
Interesting to read it and then to see you read it—two very different experiences! Reading it myself, I apply it to my life; seeing you read it, I’m swept into yours.