THE FLY

Over the Aphrodite picture in the encyclopedia the fly is born. Emerging out of her old larvae-crust she glimpses the black stripes that mark her back, and her eyes widen in marvel. The tip of her new trumpet shaped mouth brushes the soft hairs on her new legs; she trembles with disbelief. A spark of early sunlight reaches over and melts like syrup thorough her wings; she bows ecstatic and murmurs, “I am an angel.”

Her delicate wings unfold damp while she buzzes a tune. Waiting for her body to harden, the fly dreams with her eyes opened for she has no means to close them, “Wings of foiled crystal,” she looks towards the ceiling, “ to live in the firmament."

From where the fly stands, the heavens look like a pale plastered block with a flat lamp hanging from the center and God sitting below with a pencil in his claw and a newspaper on his lap. The fly’s tune becomes a gospel.

Strength had taken its place in the fly’s soul, and even thought her life is still tender, there is a growing beat inside her chest that tells her she must rise. She tenses her wings until they flap; slowly her legs detach form the paper with a pop. Inside her tiny heart joy barely constrains; if she had tears she would cry, but only a blotch of saliva comes out of her mouth and drips over the encyclopedia’s page. The spongy spot turns yellow over Aphrodite’s leg.

The fly had never felt so light; she flies in a straight line towards haven, and after seven circles lands on the infinite shoulder of that animal that is God. She has so much to thank him for, “For my trumpet mouth, for the sticky pads of my paws, for my crystal wings...”

In the fly’s lifetime there are more than enough days for her long, long, thank-you buzz. In God’s lifetime the fly is too fast. She is long gone, flapping her angel wings, before the newspaper slaps on open encyclopedia.

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