The flies congregate in
The corner of the sunroom
Around the amber strip of
Collective death.
As they circle the deathly
Stripe that is covered with the corpses of
Their fallen comrades,
I wonder what draws them
In.
Is it an overpowering seductive scent,
A reminder of a taste they could
Never forget.
Is it a lack of sight added to exploration,
A slice of the airfield that their
Eyes can’t perceive,
Until they charge with
All their might,
And realize in stillness the wholesale
Futility of their efforts.
Or is it
The looming presence of the dead? Maybe
These flies know
Exactly where all the other flies
Went, and they’re simply eager
To get there too.
Robinson Terry is an upcoming graduate from SUNY Cortland, and a soon-to-be English teacher. He loves writing poems that operate on multiple levels, though this often results in him getting too in his head. He has a serious affinity for observation, which occasionally leaves him staring at the sky while he should be crossing the street. He’s previously been published in Better Than Starbucks, Nine Muses Poetry, and Flash Fiction Press.