FISHING IN OPHELIA LAND

I troll my toes through the inky
Cold waters of recuperation,
Ten little pink and white lures
For the metastatic bites that sicken me.
Will it come back again? The doctors
Say not, but I am the bait
The killer cells keep swimming toward
And I smell their rot, their
Relentless intent to have me again, to
Drag me down with them into
Ophelia Land.

Friends gather like diving birds to
Save me, as if staging an intervention in
My fate, willing to slip below the surface
Of my fears with kind words and kisses, wishing
Me back into their sphere of immortality.
But when they leave I step with wetted feet
To a fishier beat, one that leads to the
Edge of probability, where I cast for the
Flotsam of my life and reel it back to shore for
One last look, angling with baited hook
For more, more, more.