Dorothy Neagle: I Feel Pulled

like a fish 
with a hook 
in my guts,
the lure sunk 
past my mouth,
down my throat
into the dark 
behind my navel
with other things 
I can’t see. 
I feel pulled 
by the lazy 
fisherman of my
mother’s ghost. She 
pulls me gentle. 
She pulls me 
slow. Almost as 
if I am 
swimming myself, floating 
upward, dragged like 
a dancer with 
someone else’s hands
beneath my armpits. 
But I never 
reach the surface 
of the barrier 
between her and 
me. I never 
breathe.