The Fishing Line

The fish arrived in their position to communicate — slippery with scales, a fragility that dries out quickly. From the submergence of opaque waters, it delivers a contact with an earthbound boundary. The drowns of man and woman, in a lightning-flashing desperation, an illusion of death — that lures in infinite motion. The tugs are gentle in the open plain of gravitational balance. But the twilight yanks my soul to lowest depths that no lungs can endure. My bait is my hand, with its symbolic grip — my hook is made with delicate care. A web-catching blanket that picks up the bubbles that emerge from the depths, gurgling, and everburning fire. And when it bites, it reels me in — and I become, just like the very thing that sets me free.