"Houseflies" by Paulina Menichiello
Curtains drawn, tree aglow,
hardwood floors,
shiny and silent.
You sit in the kitchen,
tapping your fingers
on granite countertop.
It descends the staircase
and stands behind you.
A fly buzzes in and out of vision.
You blink hard, unphased,
fixated on spoiled eggnog,
stale cookies.
Somehow you know it is here,
during this famine of sorts,
this Hour of Lead.
Not yet outlived,
it is too heavy to lift
and too final to melt.
Your husband shovels Raisin Bran,
pausing only to glance at you
from behind the rim.
He rips his eyes from the shadow of his breakfast
to the shadow on your face
but misses the shadow behind you.
Curtains drawn, tree aglow,
hardwood floors,
shiny and silent.
You sit in the kitchen,
tapping your fingers
on granite countertop.
It descends the staircase
and stands behind you.
A fly buzzes in and out of vision.
You blink hard, unphased,
fixated on spoiled eggnog,
stale cookies.
Somehow you know it is here,
during this famine of sorts,
this Hour of Lead.
Not yet outlived,
it is too heavy to lift
and too final to melt.
Your husband shovels Raisin Bran,
pausing only to glance at you
from behind the rim.
He rips his eyes from the shadow of his breakfast
to the shadow on your face
but misses the shadow behind you.