You refuse to let
the lazy river take you, fight
its current, holding tight
to railings, walls, my outstretched arm, anything
to keep from following the flow.
Salmon and steelhead swim
upstream so their young survive
long enough to hatch, to fight
for survival themselves.
You have been fighting
since birth. Against any water.
Doctors give us acronyms
to name your urges. Pills
to curb them. To help
fit in they say.
Salmon and steelhead
are the only fish to swim
against the current, yet
we call them fish, loyal
to labels outside our species.
You dunk another boy underwater
in a game he called murderer, and you
are named weird, strange, disturbed,
human, yes, but not quite.
Perhaps because an animal
who stands out will get
eaten and soon go extinct.
Unless, that is, it turns
its difference into strength.
One-fifth of all known fish
populations are declining,
the salmon and steelhead
mate and reproduce against
the river’s rush. They flood
their scales and roe, iridescent,
the opposite direction
of freshwater.
They are surviving.
You get knocked under
by the rush, emerge laughing, coughing, chlorine
thick on your hair, knee
scraped from the pool’s
hard bottom, red flesh
exposed like a gutted
sockeye, eager
to return to water.