Great Uncle Peter pulled so many salmon
from these waters, they gave the town his name.
Now my stringy girl digs a rod into her hip
and reels up another fat-jawed ling cod.
Her pole arches the same fertile sound
my grandmothers crossed on proper steamers,
swapping emancipated educations
for moonlit canoes and hikes with chums.
My brother braces her back as she hauls
steady against the entire Inside Passage.
He nets the thing, her fifth, and clubs
its bulging head. She does not look away.
Across that inlet, my mother was born.
Over that mountain, Dad perfected his shot.
And so far back the memories could be dreams,
I ate dinners with Granddad’s cannery men.
Her sixth. A little Alaskan in her after all,
no one says out loud, in view of the purple shoes,
the headphones, the frequent flier miles.
We rumble into town to the FedEx place.
She wants a feast under New England maples,
with a hometown blueberry pie.
Her best friend at the table; her sister
for corroboration. Her history ahead of her.
published by Cannon Beach Library