The fly

Is of the bluebottle ilk,
genus Calliphora.
Morphing from its languorous larva,
it preens for first flight.
Fanning flattened wings,
combing black bristles.
Oiling the swivels of eye clusters.
Born of a legion in festering heat.
Leaving its poor shanty and dry patties,
it does fly.
Directionless, it wants but a tailwind.

On this steamy smoky night,
There’s a sad house
with a peeled and flaking window frame
seized and stuck.
Yanked and slammed shut by impatient hands,
the speckled pane breaks.
There are loud yells,
and the cry of a little one thrown into bed.
Soon her sobs are muffled in the dirty pillow.
There’s a pea-sized hole in her window screen.
A blue buzz gets through and circles,
landing on the lamp stand.
By some fate, it’s chosen.
The sobs subside, a thumb is sucked.

Under thrall, the fly nimbly knits
a dream of lasting peace.

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