My Compulsion to Kill - March 28 2025

 

My Compulsion to Kill

March 28 2025

The fly does not

mostly,

instead, preferring to walk

across the inside of the glass

after its long winter torpor

in some crevice or crack.

I'm not sure what compels me

to swat at it.

As if I can’t tolerate

its out-of-placeness

here, in my domain.

As if its presence offends

my sense of order

notion of cleanliness.

Or perhaps that I fear

the threat of fly begetting fly,

so eventually

the air is buzzing exponentially

with heedless intruders.

Nor do I easily acknowledge

the satisfaction I feel

swatting it.

Feeling the hard crunch

when I catch it standing still.

Of watching it flail on its back,

buzzing in circles

as it skitters across

the kitchen countertop.

And the final firm thwap,

dispatching it for good.

Or bad, depending on your reverence for life.

Like the Theravada Buddhist

who won’t walk on grass

lest some living thing be stepped on.

Who would observe the fly.

Consider its plight.

Cup it gently

and carry it outside

to set his fellow creature free.

Who wouldn’t kill a fly

let alone

let it die of heat

on a sun-drenched window ledge

in a promising spring.