THE FLY - Quentin James Reynolds Poems


Poems » quentin (james) reynolds » the fly


Where we almost, nay more than married are.
– John Donne

Pearl egg of fly intimates the curve of larva, its spine and claw point.
       The cellophane shell,
brittle pupa blanket where the almost fly

lies like a spring. Coiled and tensile, its exertions will tear the sheet.
      Six black legs flutter
against the dry christening gown, I see his lambent eyes

cloistered in these living walls of jet.

Small glider, his veined wings are sheer parasols, gauzy skirts that
      admit the light. The orange
down of his pelvis beneath this architecture, blood is the adhesive

fastening flight, my sleek aviator presses his sucker feet to my lips.
     How little
he denies me, the drone in my ear and he swarms my heart if one

two light steps from the tips of my fingers he bows his head and
     makes a violin,

or hovers behind me when I circle the floor, lonely, he rests on
     shoulder, elbow, to
stare at me with swollen eyes,

darkling, drop of ink. A currant in the sugar dish, he models in the
      painted flowers, black eye
of Susan, blunt thorn -- he delights in my decadence,

the slippery floor, tiles, and stairs haunted with illness: my sensual life
      and his intersect.
He comes on the wing of another spring, in slicks of grey water, the
     pendant sun.

to navigate what is unknown to me, patiently, he regards the chrysalis of
     skin that envelops

the arched veins. Incurious and constant, he is used to waiting for the
     modest blush, the rustle of disrobing

the hush. Of silks unfolding, of gossamer veils drawn as tenderly as
     breath, from the fluent sea
of one blood made of two, the sweetness of his pestilent kiss.