The Housefly

There are bits of this world
I have not yet learned to love
(Let’s not speak of war
and rape and the garbage dumps
like writhing quilts spread over
fields of oceans.)
I mean even the wild citizens
of this earth, true to their
primordial calling,
who follow the vision
imprinted deep in their cells.

The simple housefly, say,
whose only harm is the tentative
way it lands on my cheek,
my ankle, while I rest
in the afternoon sun.
The feel of its pinprick
feet, tender on my skin,
draws unwarranted curses,
a childish contempt.

Dear sister fly, forgive
my petty disdain of your wise
and nimble nature.
Small harbinger of rain,
you who tread so lightly
as you weave through your
existence, I am ashamed
of my narrow, brutish love.

One thought on “The Housefly

  1. robynth says:

    Kirsten, you have such a magical way with words….I often take your talent for granted…you’re my-sister-who-writes-poetry-of-course. But sometimes when I read your poems, your “uninterpreted life,” your novel (!), I am struck (again) but your talent. You make the world a more beautiful place by your words. Thanks for sharing them with us.

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