elizabeth hamilton

The Lord is a fly, black, fat, and buzzing. He bites. He is mean. I am in my bedroom, lying in bed, waiting for the fly. Will you come to me, fly? Bite me? Let the blood run thin? God is a baby, yes? But he is also a fly. A pesky nagger. A nuisance just out of reach. Go away, fly. Go bother someone else. Go find a pile of crap to land on. I’m not your garbage heap.

Fly, fly. You mean, vicious bug. Why do you love lights so? You hit them – bzt bzt bzt – and each time get a little shock. Can’t you see I’m trying to concentrate? Can’t you see I have real, practical things to address? My most recent bank statement. That email to a friend. Maybe even, a prayer.

You circle my head – Lord, why do you come at me as a fly? There are so many better, nobler, sweeter creatures you could have chosen. Maybe my cat, black and furry, purring on my bed. Or the dog, who, yes, barks in the mornings, but is otherwise docile. Fly away fly! You’re a bother! What do you want from me?

Only absolute attention. Only observation of what is small and annoying. Only the end of laziness and the beginning of quick action. You win Fly-God, okay? You’re under my skin.

Tagged: poetry, writing