Flies collect in empty jars. They pile up on window sills. They get sucked into the back of the
box fan then shot out the front. Wings are separated from their abdomens. Mornings where there
is energy enough, the widow who shares her home with houseflies, horselies, maggots, and eggs,
goes after them with swatters and a vacuum hose. The murderous spree affords her an hours
peace on the cool floor, where she endures only the flitting of a half-dozen or so flies. She is able
to nap without an insect in her ear. Like livestock, her muscles twitch tired. When she wakes,
there are more. A dark cloud manifests over and inside the sink. Bugs emerge from the drain and
make their way onto crusted dishes. She eats quickly, crouching over a plate of refrigerated
things. To cook is to risk bodies finding their way into her meal. Eventually, the heat drives her
outside, traitorous October still siding with summer. She takes in the fields of cows and their shit
surrounding her failing home. Miles down the dirt road, the owners of these fields and of her
small rented shack, have built a barn that uses central heat and air to cool Thoroughbred horses.
Slumped over the front steps, she counts horsefly pupae piled ontop of waste and knows this is
good opportunity to kill what will certainly harm her. So certain, she thinks, it’s almost
commendable. All this life around her committed to surviving. On long afternoons like this,
when the light drags her face down and autumn feels like a false memory or a joke, she senses
her mistake in trying to contend with all the things that are more determined than her to keep
living. A pupa begins to hatch, the dark hardened container broken from the inside as a fresh
winged-terror emerges. The part of herself she doesn’t understand, pulls her to her feet, fetches
the broom, and sees that the cycle continues.