Fishing

In that dusky lake of honey hue, she eavesdrops as the water nips her calves. Long ago, she learned that eyes deceive. A ripple without a tug marks the difference between starvation and sustenance.

She knows the lake and all the fish within. They have fed on the ashes of her kin. But that dust has made the teeming life no more sympathetic. They couldn't care less. They don't want her to win. Instead, they tug at her line tauntingly, treating her like a spoiled younger sister. They laugh at her exhaustion, at her impatience with them. The schools sample her bait, each fishy connosieur delicately easing each wormy delicacy from the makeshift hook. As she reels in the line, she curses herself, fighting back the tears. She doesn't need to see the hook to know that the bait rests in peace. She breathes.

Pine and juniper fill her nostrils. She relaxes and remembers when love and pain were not so intertwined.

She casts again, knowing that whatever she catches will not be enough.