Net Fishing

You are no longer teetering over the abyss.

Instead, you are fishing it, laughing skiffer

holding a net between the large boat

of the body who birthed you and yourself

behind the wheel, parallel to shore, to her,

moving slowly, rejoicing in every netted fish

packed with perfect pink flesh, pulsing,

salty with electricity, with nutritious death,

that sliver of missed bone we must swallow

chased by bread when we can’t cough it up.