Because the fly
does not rest
because it is a machine
its body formed from bronze
its head, bullion
its wings from glass
because this small alloy
cast in flight
needs muscle
still humid with life
you have no time
to lose
After the slaughter
after the neighbors have gone
and the blood has soaked the ground
after the knife
drop your cracked hands
into the ice bath
Knead her shoulders,
thighs, knead each length
slow like it is your own, sore
from this day’s already long work
Rub her with salt, black
pepper, molasses, borax,
fear, keep that glowing scavenger
away from what it needs from what you need
because you are a machine
and this is what you are here for
And when the peach trees blossom
when your weather has turned
lay hickory and apple
lay sassafras, fuel
fresh split, tender and green
In this open house
logs transcendent with air
no mud or mortar or screen
start the smoke rolling
uncontrollable,
great next coming,
great smothering
Each blazing day counted
by every pound of flesh
you own
