No, I didn’t
delight in the fruit
flies’ deaths,
though anyone who
heard me scoff
would have thought
I did. One version
of myself would have
let them overrun
the kitchen. I’ve learned
to harden
my heart.
If I’d have let
the fruit flies live,
I’d have named
each one.
Consider how small
each of their hearts,
how much tiny
blood, the little
distances the blood
travels in those small
bodies. God of tiny
nuisances—
who counts each hair
on my head—
I am god
of them now. Stuck
to the strip,
I know some of them
are still alive.
On Mercy
