When Pinacate lava diverted the Sonoyta River
a million years ago                        
you and I were not here to watch Quitobaquito pupfish
separate wholly and without regret from
their Colorado River drainage kin.
It’s been a brackish life.  Pleasure a bit obscured.
Some better suited to the biting taste.  We hold hands
before a shallow pond.  Algae and fish oasis.
Argument over staying or leaving one another
dissolved.  Falsity lims the touch.
Spring, and I am looking for the iridescent blue
of an eager breeding male who is not yet anxious over drought. 
Insect larvae enough to feed everyone. 
Preserved between the being with you
and not.  Unable to move any closer to either edge.
Last winter we took a course called Culinary Delights.
At first I negligently seasoned every dish—
especially the bonito—with too much salsify.  Still have
no sense for how much salt is possible before
the whole thing turns to crystalline.