Kiki Considers Her Losses

Twenty years finally since I left that slope
of wild rose and granite, since I

cast out a spoon over Table Bay,
let it fall, let it fall

toward deep weed and muck, where
the Dolly Varden might see its gleam.

Twenty sorrows removed from absolute
middle, our boat five miles from shore, the line

twittering now in the eyelets of the rod—
salmon calling, hot July, no praise, no blame.

The message from heaven
always: Don’t whine. In the city of net and hook

men sleep on the curbs curled like trout.
We pass them deciding to kick or not,

to murder or not,
as prayers simmer from the vents like steam,

as if lake water boiled
deep in the earth only to return now

to cook us delicately, lost loved ones, in its steam,
to send up a pure sacrifice to God.