salmon mouth

sometimes i open my mouth
& the salmon are home. they have swam
up my blood to the surface. their scales
like hand mirrors in the dark. 
i am fishing. i am fishing out my window
like i used to do as a child when 
the year put on her blanket & curled up
at the foot of the bear. i would snag
all kinds of dreams. a hook through 
my grandfather's lip. his braided beard
like a trestle into a sweat sweet jungle. 
a hook through my grandmother's ear
as it rang like a bell struck in an empty church.
i am hungry in a way the stars can 
no longer fix. i am hungry for sleep & for 
legless birds. no more landings 
let us go until the world is water. until there
are no more dams to block our teeth.
bite down on the holy ground. mouth of sand.
mouth of water. mouth of salmon. 
the roots clapping their hands beneath
soil. singing their bells. the hook 
finally catching my father when his hair
was still long. when the sound of cicadas 
opened us like canned meat. his jeep
in the parking lot beneath the willow tree.
the salmon finding us there. filling the floor
of the car. a breeze that turned us both
into ghosts. i reel in a bare hook. put it through
my own tongue & hand the rod to the sun. 
make me a cloud. i want to rain.