Phototaxis

A flytapped against the glass
of the light bulb and it sounded
just like your fingers
strumming a bare wall.

I saw the warped shadow of the fly—
large
across the yellowing screen and
I remember the way
your eyes looked underneath lamps—
the same yellow—
and the way
you nearly rubbed them out.

Now, there is
an opening in your face — hollow parts
in a white skull.

The fly leads the blind
to light—where you both feel it,
and throw yourselves
against the glass
to stay warm,
navigating a straight line toward the sky.


xo, Rose