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. |