by James Doyle
I summoned flies from the stables
to follow me around,
a buzzing cloud that flirted
with every stray scent
to come down the alleys.
It was a plague year
and I needed protection
from the rumors
that I had a secret ointment
to seal the body’s cracks
against this particular death.
I had the lotion all right,
but not enough
to soothe the entire population
of London, settle them down
like children at bedtime.
There was no one I loved,
no one I owed.
The ointment I rubbed on myself
was my future, the slow
decades it would take
for my flesh to dry completely,
flake off in the grave.
The flies were a curtain
dropped between me
and the corpses in the street,
between me and the live
ones, theirs boils heavy
with dark veins, their limbs
unable to stop dancing.