For Salvador
By Byron Nalos, Nikiski
pulling anchors from the sea
and squinting in Susitna’s breeze,
anchorlines ten fathoms long
snagged and gilled Leviathan,
snagged in mud, or even more
a pail of iron from the core
like drawing buckets from a well,
the leadlines over the leeward rails,
pulling them north by northeast,
the brackish mist, the brackish mist,
the roar along the aluminum rim
like horsetails on a cello string,
a siren’s song that begins
and ends upon the metal rim —
pulling anchors from the sea
the brackish drink, the brackish drink,
the memory tho sweet and sour
mixed with doctrines and desire
mixes even, knowingly,
that somehow, somewhere,
you and I are fishing
freshwater.
