The Fly

by Sally O’Brien

The woman next to me in church whispers Look, 
holds out the holy bread to show me the blowfly
nosing around in its crumb. 
                                                What do I do now? 

They say the mind of a saint is like a room
where flies wander in, see there is no compost 
ripe for landing on, and head right back out. 

That room isn’t in my house. Not these days:
I stalk a fat sarcophagid around the bedroom 
for half an hour with the flyswatter, waiting 
to hear it buzz against the windowpane—
and I’ve been in a losing battle with a cloud
of fruit flies in my kitchen since I forgot that
onion, let it go rotten in the bag. I smack one
on the wall and six more hover around me, 
ignoring the vinegar traps I set, peppering
my pretty white cabinets with their frass. 

                                                What do I do now? 

She sets her dilemma gently on the music stand
as the priest intones the dismissal, and the fly
doesn’t startle either, stays clinging to the bread. 

Here I am too, Lord, approaching the holy gifts
with the grease of whatever carrion I’ve been
dallying in, all over my hairy little feet.

::

Sally O’Brien works as a high school teacher in Philadelphia and lives with her family within earshot of the Market-Frankford Line. Her poetry has previously appeared in Apiary, Duende, and St. Katherine Review.

Image: Tobias Roth

ID: close-up of a fly.