Fly
Anina Robb


When I’m about to move, days
are all anticipation, turned wrist to open
watch face, counting bells
of the church down the block, and the night is lovely
only because I sleep and do not measure time.

My last summer at home I counted everything--
mornings, toothbrushes by the sink, house flies.
When a fly landed on the screen, I’d shut
the window and watch the struggle, tallying up
the number of times the fly crashed into the glass,
a hollow thump like the lingering echo just after the hour.

Did I find comfort in the trapping?
The way that summer I circled the track, measured
distance in strides, each step leading me back
to the wire gate where I started. I told myself I ran
for exercise, for air, for the loneliness
of my open palms--
I think of myself as moving.
I think of myself as moving
into a full night where my hands brim over
but there is nothing to contain.

About the author:
Anina Robb is a poet living in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia with
her husband, son, daughter, and cat & dog.  She earned her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College. Her poems have appeared in numerous
publications, both online and print. In her spare time she likes to run.