Black Flies, poetry by David Estringel at

Black Flies

Black Flies

written by: David Estringel



skim the surface of the screen door—
deathly spirits in timeless dance—
among rusty catches
and long-forgotten captures
of smears and smiles,
looking for a tear
to let the world rush in
(in whispers and screams)
like credos
of newborns’ philosophies.

No, they don’t bother me much
those errant twings and twangs
that pull my eyes away
from the magnetic hum
of hard plastic fruit,
ripening on Frigidaire doors,
and the bloody meat
of strawberry slices,
souring in a bowl of milk,
under the frosted glow
of my 60-watt suns

Is it the creak
of floorboards under wooden legs
(or bones)
that heralds their come to call,
circling like a wreath,
at my kitchen door?
Or is this but a stop
on the way to the widows down the road,
where anonymous casseroles
and bunt cakes
still linger ‘round the doorstep?

A faint buzz haunts my ears
and the windowsill above the sink,
cutting sunbeams
with timely slices of unseen wings.
There’s a crawling upon me
at the back of my neck.
Something has found its way in.
Is this a curious stroll
or a first taste of flesh?

Shoo, fly,
don’t bother me!

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