fire in your hand

you lie there on your stomach asleep

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