The Fly

 by Brett Rutherford

Five days now
a single house-fly
has followed me about
from room to room,
circling about my head.
My personal Beelzebub,
he evades the swat,
ignores the honeyed trap,
refuses the egress
of a sunny, opened window.

He is still there all night.
Does he mine, while I sleep,
my nostrils and ears?
Does he lap tears
from eye-edge
as I dream-weep
of lost loves?

Does he know something
that I do not?
Is he someone
I ought to humor
come back to visit,
soul reincarnate,
his prism eyes beaming
a joy I cannot fathom?

Begone, little friend.
Go find some she-fly
in a place of leaf-rot
and make a million
progeny. The crumbs
and dry crevices
of a poet's house
are not for you.