Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Fire-Water, Invisibility

Nobody heard her until the fly came out of her chest.
Hidden in a square room,
chocolate liqueur and a mirror slit.
If you stick your head out the kitchen window
you can see her reflected in the air vents.
The pink to purple birthmark,
a tryst upon her chest.

The first scream 
indicated the first fly,
Her chest like a dragon 
burping a tiny flame.
Scratched and scabbed,
it looked freckled.

We soothed her
with KahlĂșa and Malibu.
Patched her chest up
with a beige bandaid.
A cream-colored X
on her strawberry grape body.

The second time we rolled our eyes,
pretending to inspect the open hole,
a dot within a dot.
We checked a big red
on the warble fly box
she held in her hand.

Drinking in shades of eggshell,
she searched for a medicine
in the absence of an extraction.
A new smoker’s cough,
thinking the combination
of tobacco and sweet poison
would drive them out.

The next day
we passed her room 
to see if she still felt the flies
pulsating under her skin.
We thought,
they wouldn’t look like flies!
If anything, small chunky yellow
amphibian snacks.

We came upon her square room,
lights on and door swung open.
Her woven tapestry dipped 
in the middle where it missed a tack,
a glass ashtray filled with clips and sandy ash.
No fly girl,
only buzzing.

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