A NET Poem by Sibila Petlevski

Water lets the fish know it's raining.
Neither the kind nor the quantity of bait
are essential. All the traps are equally good.
I am afraid. Protected by fear. A net is coming
out of me, meter by meter of nausea. I will
vomit the knots and holes together with
what was madly and persistently seeking shelter

among my knots and did not manage to escape
through the holes. I will kiss what is wrapped,
I will glue the porous places with saliva.
It will stay within me forever: the first knot,
the hidden source of the net that will sooner
or later lie outside empty and wrapped. This will be
when the sun gets out of the fissure in the stone
and throws the rays as if it was receiving them.