Restoration

You place your hands
in water that throbs
with salmon bodies.
Downstream there is a slow
rotation of blood.

Along the water light flares,
caught in scales, leaves
of scripture turning. You wait
very still, and a female sockeye
rushes your fingers.

You hold her for a moment, smooth
her wine-red skin. Her belly swells rich
with years. She rubs against your palm
and the smell of her flakes
onto your tongue.

Your hands ache white
against the dark gravel bed
as she leaves you behind,
noses upward, easily,
toward her own sweet Eden.

Emily Wall