I stood near the tree

its exposed roots enough toehold 

A precarious perch for our rosy child

and me, on the bank to the river

While you cast your line

dreams of hooking plump salmon for dinner

in a stream starved for slender silver fish

You thought car rides were police chases,

and stunning, statuesque men in dresses

were women. You staunchly defended

mother first, child and wife last

Rice must be smooth, flat and oiled,

never sticky, and gold chains upon my son's

sweet-smelling wrist and neck were removed

when you were not looking. Twice a month

perfunctory tumble and always missionary 

culminating fifteen to twenty minutes later

with a sandbox grunt

Christmas time we milled around, the obnoxious

tree, a six foot monstrosity squat and uneasy, in the middle

of a South San Francisco living room, while we made stilted

conversation, and tried to focus on blurred cream walls

Looking anywhere but where your mother sat

cradled reverently, like St. Nick's long-awaited

present on your lap. This was our clockwork

but only for two more years

Time is vigilant in its observation

duly noting a rewind, a screw loose, a need to tune.

Quinceñeara in the forefront

it was the theme of 1997's stifling heat

A trip to Los Angeles, a drunken rant and Sweet

Honesty powder dusting the air and the motel floor. 

Disneyland both surreal and nostalgic.

Two months after, the humidity a wall to

the persuasion of autumn, you let us go

My rosy child and I

we swam in cooler pools

aimless and naive and relieved 

Imaginary fish and imperious mother-lovers

in our wake

Eyes embrace, stirring evening past

      lustful love of licentious romps,

     watching the voluptuous rainbows

     burst in rosy salmon sky of dawn.

Carnal danger never sleeps in

     steamy, thirsty churning river 

     splashing salmon soulfully sprint,

     striving for new fleshy life,

     awaiting joys of crimson birth.

I stand on the brink of river bank

     smoking and intercepting unchaste heat,

     observing osprey chiseling the breeze.

     plump dimpled salmon forge upstream

     where hungry bears wait with salivation

fish leapfrog over curled bear claws

     beast’s animalistic feast not ready yet.

     muscular fishermen throw out their nets

     striving to score copious bounty on table.

She and I gaze sensually at each other

     across the rumpled bed covers of passion,

     stroll naked together into the kitchen

     gently stroke the sultry bagels in circles,

     slice their bodies, adding a drop of sensuality

schmeered with buxom blobs of cream cheese

     rosy breasts of smoked salmon layered in arousal,

     onion and tomato slices glistening like our desires

     feeding little bits into open, yearning moist mouths.

    saga of salmon surrendering sensually to our needs.

He'd drown his words with feeling, 

Rosy cheeks bursting with color and volume

Speaking with such eloquence that she couldn't help

But hear, but listen closer to the rainbow of sounds

That dripped from his mouth every time he spoke, 

As if each word was a new treasure.

She took more time to speak, stuttering

Her words smoked and expired, like coals of a fire

That burned out long ago. 

She watched longingly as his friends gathered around him, wondering

If she could ever be so amazing, so radiant. 

Every time she tried to approach him, her feet were made of lead

And she dragged them along, each word a new burden

For each of them to bear. She didn't prepare a script, 

But spoke the words that had gathered up in her throat

In all the previous months, and she choked them out

As he watched, appalled.

He thought so much of his words; they were all he had

And to him, she was less than human, a flat character 

Who lived in the darkness, not to be thought much of. 

Yet, one time, she seemed almost angelic 

And he watched her, as she walked up to him, head held high

And spoke all the words he wish he could say, 

Spoke words that sounded to him quite impossible, and made

The rainbows of his voice turned to gray clouds.

It'd make him wonder if he could ever have the courage

To speak the truth, without a care of who was listening.