Salmoncandle Upriver
by Ava Ross
Walking home after Zazen on the newest hottest day of the year brings subtle pleasure,
The kind I think they were talking about.
Pleasant
But alarming
Like the smell of burnt popcorn.
The heat pushes everyone out of their houses
And a rare public/private osmosis is reached on Haight Street.
Consider, as you stroll:
In the future
Wonder Bread really will be a wonder
Unless
We GMO a kernel of wheat so damn strong that it could survive
Humanity.
In the future
I will no longer curse the shrink-swell cycle of my belly,
For it will represent eatin’
Like the good ol’ days.
Consider:
Oysters are one of the cleanest meats we have despite flying to Hawaii and back.
I consider this
As I cruise high above and smoke the ozone like a pack
All in the name of familial love.
I consider this
As I shuck twelve oysters
Whose shells are tissue papered in these acidic waters.
I consider
Our eternal shortsightedness in the
Eternal pursuit of pleasure.
In girlhood my father would take us to this same bridge
We would watch dog-jawed salmon chug onwards
As the flesh fell from their bones
And the eagles would swoop down and put a piece of that vast ocean into their handbags
Before resuming their spot on the throne.
I miss how they rot.
We return home and the cat has shit in my suitcase and my mother says to me I cannot imagine you having children.
Today on Howard I pass a boy and his sister,
Not four feet high
And amidst the dried piss
I wish my arms were a market basket
So that I might carry them safely
And tenderly
To their final destination.
Ava hails from the Skagit Valley, the fertile crescent of Washington State, and currently resides in San Francisco. By day, she is a landscape architect designing the city block by block. By night, she drinks Fernet and scribbles furiously into a notebook. Her least and most favorite bus line is the 33, her favorite dance is tango, she's always laughing. Instagram: @avarosscreativework
