Why I Don’t Kill Flies
The dog is splayed across the rug, Her nose tucked in her paw, She dreams of hidey-holes long dug, Of bones she’ll never gnaw. The cat is curled up in his chair, A prisoner of the rain, His eye meets mine, a slotted stare, Contemptuous, half-insane. A fly squats on my saucer rim To rub his leper’s legs, I tense a hand to flatten him Or drown him in the dregs, But cat and dog and fly— we four Are hostages to strife, Each prisoner in our Mother’s war— The carrier-plague called ‘life’... Which pits each living thing to purge Competitors — or die. I care not what my senses urge: I shall not kill this fly.