Fly

Published June 12, 2014 by April Fox

The world is defined
by the dregs dying
at the bottom of your cup
drowning in the cold,
left behind by your apathetic inability
to do something as simple
as change the filter
–dumping the new, coarsely ground by some half-assed industrial
machine
on top of what was left from last time, stale and bitter
beginning to mold–
the water is hard and the line around the pot is a
hazy equator
another sign of how little
you’ve accomplished

There is a broken light in the hall and you’ve ground the glass
to glitter
under your heels
the only hint of glamour
in the piss-stained corridor

Paper windows filter the sun,
faded newsprint
a black-and-white ad for a video shop
a sale on bras at some long-dead department store
a rapist on the loose
and the stock market just crashed

There’s nothing to see out there
anyway
and the holes are patched with electrical tape
and flypaper strips
corpse-black and rank

A half-dead fly makes a lazy lap
in the mug, one wing dragging
behind, five legs scrabbling
to catch hold in the filmy
black sludge

For a second, you might have made contact
with one of its eyes

Jealous of his freedom
you lift the mug
and drink.

 

**Once in a while, I’ll send something I’ve written to my husband to get his opinion on whether I should share it. (There have been a few things that have been maybe a bit too offensive to be floating around cyberspace with my name attached, and others that I thought probably just sucked.) His response to this one: “I love it. Are you mad that I didn’t clean the French press? Cause I was totally gonna.” This is not about the French press, which I had no idea hadn’t been cleaned. I don’t know where this came from, but I promise it’s not that.

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