Fly, Go Home Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

In crow- and charcoal-
lined spirals
you spin in cream air,

you swing down
into the gleaming
tip of my barbecued
hamburger,

and I smack you to fly
back through
attics and chimneys
into the cyber-lined
flax air of dusk.

I snap you
to find your straight street
back to your home
in deep ditches behind
storm-bowed grasses.

But you sail
back through a dark
track of air,

buzzing with you,
as you drive
a tuba's message
into my ears.

I smack and send
you to the landing
slab of the staircase
down below

in the stable ceiling
of buzzing air
your fleeting brothers
and sisters,

who melt into dark
corners
and homes
beneath cob webs.

(ii)

And as I fly back
upstairs to the dining
table, I find
a piece of embroidery

covering my hamburger
with crawling
specks of cream fat-bellied
dudes in gray

wheels of life hacking
creeping clouds
of life into a rising stench
piloted by
air and other flies,

as I show them
a yawning door
to a trash can, a home
the fly flees from
from an obsidian cloud

to the warmer home
just spat out
by the hot mouth
of a new McDonalds plastic
wrap, buzzing out
a louder message
from a trombone:

" My home
is the living flesh
of air,
and not carcasses
in a trash can.

My home lies
beneath spirals
of dust,
man's home too
in his deepening regolith".