The Fly
after Miroslav Holub

She sat on a warm turd

near the fence at the entry

to the auction house

amid the trampling,

the moans and frightened wails



and while the heifers sold by the lot

at well over a dollar a pound

she mated with a bottle-nose

out of a horse trailer 

straight from the racetrack



She rubbed her legs together

and sucked half-digested juices

contemplating the agonizingly

half-joyful life of the fly

then flew



happy as a fly in shit can be

and still fly,

over a fence across a field

and into the fragrant open sore

on a little child’s arm



splashing in a wading pool

in a backyard yellow with drought,

while from the deck the mom,

adjusting the volume on the radio,

called, You be careful you don’t drown.

© Colin Morton