By Holly Day.
appearing as if assembled by angry alchemists
fleeing free from fermenting flesh.
maybe befuddled brilliant boys like Bacon
pinched between my thumb and index finger.
the forefathers of this fly
maggots molting, multiplying, mounting air
suffered the same sort of scrutiny
the ancient intimates of these insects
the ancient ancestor of this angling arthropod
could have crawled across the concrete
of a palace, or a prison
could have crept close to a condemned criminal’s crippled claw, curious of
the fumbling of fetid fingernails fighting feebly against