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Feeding Fiona

(As if Fuin Mac Cumhal and the Salmon of Knowledge had a heroine instead.)

Why bury your wild heart?
Honor that rakish salvation 
from soap and Jane Austin.

It’s neither silk purse nor 
sow's ear. Why bother with 
the quest for a perfect way?

Tunnel the worm holes into 
ninth dimension tomorrow. 
These notions for life, for duty -

so quickly they fill with 
dust like puddles in August.
If you neglect the beveled 

lips of agate, framing you 
beside feral kin, proud light 
bends obliquely from miracle.

When you giggle madly as 
a pod of girls in skirts blue
and billowing - veils swing open.

Hold this passage like April
holds spring. The earth aches
for each seed and feathered 

song; desires grubby fingers 
to probe the iron laced fissures,
they map our fault line. Follow

the dark thread home; 
nose to wind. Chase every 
sanguine urge. Crave 

the Golden Salmon roasting
on hot coals. The best morsels 
wait for your hungry tongue.

Feed Fiona and croon 
to your wild heart.
Don’t bury her again.

-- rosalynn cimino

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