By December,
I have to tell my boys,
the fish are gone.
Under the pioneer bridge,
the falls still fall
but the native platforms
hang from once burning rock
over churning water
empty.
It is cold now
and the wind whips
mist from the falls
so hard
it slaps my face red
As I try to explain
the old ways,
Where nets and seasons
and hearts and fish
meant life, dripping
from the end of a
long pole...
but the leaves turned
and fell too long ago.
I show the set-up
to my boys
before they play
hide and seek
Behind the interpretive sign
and the Sani-can
standing watch
over the parking lot.
The highway is quiet,
posing no threat,
so I turn my face
into the slashing wind
I taste wet
drops from the river
on my lips, and I try
to remember
the taste of salmon.
I feel a tug, I see
a small, young face
wanting to go
back to Daddy’s house;
it is too cold here.
Climbing into the car,
buckling in for safety,
turning on the heat,
turning on the wipers,
clearing the mist...
none of us remember
the taste of salmon.
The Properties of Dust
The Properties of Dust was a small book I put together in 2005 for a desktop publishing class at Portland State University. Many of these pieces were written specifically for the book project, and the rest date back to as early as 1990. The pieces were accompanied by a photo or two in the original book, but, in most cases, I am using different, more recent, photos with this series of posts.
1.
2.
3.
Watching a Woman From Across the Room
4.
Something Lost
Slough
Home
After the War
5.
Lair
Love Poems
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Rubble by A. F. Litt
About the Creator
A. F. Litt
Photographer, writer, filmmaker, wandering lost soul...
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