Ode to a salmon

Flesh: pink, cold, oily:
Covering rice: wet, shining and white;

My tongue embraces what soon disappears,
as a lover who comes and leaves in the night.

Like a truth known only in doing:
a temporary, unexplainable right;

That fish I had still plays with me,
and lingers on in memory’s sight.

Just a fish, you ask? Don’t play the fool;
only a master, striving could cut it just quite.

Ah, what my mouth wouldn’t give to taste it again…
another round of that ultimate bite.