lies about god

visited again by the black fly, just as you think
translucence, its wings smashed apostrophes
veined with self-reference or possession, the god
body almost furred, dying every day, praying, barbed
paws in the position of supplicant, where to now, boss

so enormous you can see its nearly-feet, the pads
sticky with would-be grief / but that’s you, yes?
not the gnat, not the horsefly, not the bullet-bodied
housefly diving toward your cheap chardonnay
like shit or a flower, whatever

and all the reverence and all the revulsion, this
thing of marvel to scientists and seven-year-old boys
its small hum making you itch and turn
like a bad spy or dropped angel, the dead
without wings, all the wolf in you that keens

holy is a word for whatever we don’t want
to be. the ash-throated gnateater recognizes
uselessness in the bent cigarette butt in its beak
and flies off empty-mouthed. yours is a small
conundrum: the god in you, the fly,
how to remove the skin and walk away.