The Picnic Fly
I’ve never had the slightest feeling
for a fly, much less other bugs,
no sympathy, no closeness. Have you?
And yet, a fly is a living thing, sharing
the planet with us and other breathing things.
So why the distance, why the coldness?
I suppose it’s the fly’s reputation –
disease carrier, fecal taster, food contaminator,
pesky nuisance, and, my neighbor’s
favorite epithet, “sons of Baalzebug,”
and other pernicious epithets the human
mind dumps out on this little buzzing
creature it deems obscene and disgusting,
even a threat to our peace of mind,
and a major flaw in an otherwise perfect God.
I’ve had a few encounters with flies
over the years. Once, on a picnic,
I detected a fly in the potato salad,
camouflaged in a coat of mayonnaise,
just as I was scooping a large spoonful of it
on a paper plate, next to a slice of ham.
And who hasn’t had a fly scoot up his nose,
or flown into his ear? – what strange sensations!
Or buzzed you mad when trying to read a book?
I guess the only thing I like about a fly is
its Latin name, Musca domestica, better
known as the common house (or kitchen) fly.
And given all the social and political
ills of ancient Roman society,
and its hordes of enemies, the little
musca may, quite literally, have been
every Romans’ most invasive and irritable
enemy to home and table,
and, I might imagine, quite capable
on occasion of unhinging a mind
as even-tempered as Cicero’s.
Copyright © Maurice Rigoler | Year Posted 2024
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