in the golden morning sun.
your hand is awkwardly extended
from underneath you, like a twisted
branch from a desert tree.
a large fly, black like tar,
circles your open hand in contemplation.
it is as big as a coin and the insect and I examine each other
like we had met in a previous life.
the fly twists its legs back and forth
as if he were making fire in your hand or praying.
but why would a fly pray and to whom would it pray?
if i were that fly, I would dance
in the soft cushion of your palm.
finally, you feel the sensation of him
parading in your hand like a proud king,
and you close your fingers to a tight fist and turn.
july 31, 2009