Flies Die By The Windows
Flies Die By The WindowsI didn't ask for them to invade my prison-kingdom,
Of zirconium, old oak and iron.
Of wilting lavender on the windowsills.
For years I heard them but didn't see -
The humming of the horse fly, boring
Into the orifice of my brain.
The chord of Lacewings, a storm in membranes.
Insecurities throbbed in waves.
The house fly, especially, nags at you.
Snagging at the fabric of your consciousness.
The torturous locust.
Worse still the jab of the bot fly.
The stab of its tongue. A tiny intruder.
Together, they pulled back the calm I constructed,
Baring a flea-bitten body, gasping for air.
They were more urgent then, at summer's end;
When my isolation heightens.
Folding dutifully to the darkening light.
A tireless buzzing under the pillows.
A faint tapping against glass.
Like thoughts continually deferred.
I simply swatted them away.
And in truth, flies flail and twitch terribly when they die,
And they always die by the windows,
Where the air is freshest.
Under the murky glow of the new moon,
All their lives trying,
Unable to get through.
© David Brady
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