Salmon Dinner
Salmon swim upstream towards home to spawn, then die of
exhaustion soon after. No one tells them to do this. It’s pure instinct.
                                   No one tells me to return to you.
                                   Over and over and over again.
                                   Quite the contrary, actually, as I am told each time that I should
               stop.
                         I must stop.
                         I cannot keep swimming upstream. I will die of overexertion. I am
               destroying myself.Â
                         I keep swimming back to you anyway.
                         A certain time of year comes around, and I catch your scent.
                        The fins grow out of my arms and legs and I dive into the water, take a
               deep breath in as my lungs turn to gills.
                         I fight the tide all the way back to you.
                         I make the long journey, then I lay down, dripping with exhaustion, to
               rest in your open arms.
                         My love soaks the sheets and puddles onto the hardwood floor.
                         And you allow me to die there, my energy spent and my body weary, so
               you can cook me and eat me for dinner.
                         No one tells me to do it.
                         It’s pure instinct.
About the Poet
Kaylon Willoughby is from south Louisiana. A recent college graduate, their work has been published three times in Argus LIterary Magazine and they are a finalist for the Del Shores Foundation 2021 Writer's Search. Although primarily a playwright, they haave a great passion for poems about love, nature, and all the little joyful things in life. Find their plays on the New Play Exchange and their poetry on Instagram @prose.rose_