understand these silver-sided beauties

streaking iridescent rivulets

             running back to the Cut

where boats

             mechanically rise and lower—

                          east to the lake or west out to sea.

Earth of birth in the body inherent

             intelligence of instinctual emotion,

the salmon are leaping.

One long sleek muscle

             gathers to hurl whole

into impossible air,

fling up and curve around barriers

             counter-balance against the current

                          for extra push,

leap delirious

to rise the force of rushing, gushing

             water thrust against her,

arc over the concrete ladder,

             a poor substitute for falls and rapids—

             he’s done to it.

She’s slipped through bloody claws,

the fat-assed sea lion taking advantage of opportunity

                          like any good market capitalist.

             Airy sparks swirl

                          a frothy blood-foam

she’s slid through his murderous teeth

while he chomps down on the flesh

of a less agile sister, her eye

on the prize of remembering

the sight and scent of home.

Swollen with eggs, she knows

just where she goes, carries them

             in the basket of her belly

                          to the safe stream where she was born

green translucent light

filtered through pooled water.

She will hurl herself watonly

             up any obstacle,

And I, though my belly no longer holds eggs

and the dream of babies does not drive me,

                          would still leap off—

                                       or up—

the right available cliff

                                       for love

and hope to live through it,

             though I’d take the risk.

Upstream she’ll die,

mottled and spent,

                          and so will I

but there’s this exuberant leap to execute

while bees drink wine from fermented fallen fruit

and September’s golden blue sun glistens the water

             surface like liquid light on wrinkled silk.

Judith Roche (WA)  is the author of two collections of poetry, Myrrh and Ghosts and has been published in numerous journals and magazines. She is the 1998 recipient of the American Book Award.