i befriended a fruit fly once,
with body black, and bending knees.
knowing secrets of the universe, hence
it told me how to live in peace.
as if peace is a line in the sand,
and we had the same number of feet.
cross the line, to break your hands,
rhymes are just ends that agree.
fruit flies live for forty days—
nine hundred, sixty hours.
but numbers have such little power
when lives, like fruit, turn sour.
born one summer afternoon,
the first day it’s the urges:
to sing, to shout, to dance, to croon,
to fall asleep and dream of june.
it’s not always easy staying carefree,
different by the second day,
they’re meant to enlist in the army,
but most desert and run away.
where do they run—- fly?
nobody really knows.
but don’t go searching asking why,
it’s hard flying in circles.
the second week it’s falling:
in love with how peaches bake in the sun.
the third week it’s the stalling:
when did fresh rot stop being fun?
the fourth week comes too soon,
their sudden rush, to smell the sea.
to hear small towns above lovetombs.
to see, to see, to see.
i befriended a fruit fly once,
it told me how to be happy.
they see a thousand worlds at once
with no patterns or consistency.
except each being a type of ugly,
a kaleidoscope of lines.
“if you want, you will, you are, you’ll see.”
it spoke so brokenly.
the fruit fly’s long gone now.
crushed up against some wall.
an abstract black, of legs and guts,
reduced down to aerosol.
maybe it’s finding happiness.
maybe it’s already happy.
there is no way to know for sure…
it probably lied to me.