My mother is a fish. I have buried her three times already, but the water table is high

and she floats to the surface. I cleaned her, using scissors to cut anteriorly through the

bones attached to her pelvic fins, but I can’t cross the river while her cloudy eyes are

directed at the sky. The tackle box is full of the rusty hooks of untried catches. I take a

pitted sinker and use the fishing line to weigh down her fleshy isthmus. There is water

in my shoes but I can feel the stones rise beneath my feet.

Image: Fly fishing tackle box next to stream / Chesapeake Bay Program

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