I woke up to a  buzzing sound
clean and sharp as the blade of a pelvic bone
it was under my tongue, a dryness at the tip of my thumbs
whistling up and around the cosmic circles of my spine.

I look and find black spots on my bed
flies the size of a big, bruised toe
or the engorged nipples of a woman with child
someone had pinched, twisted and twisted
until the skin tore off with a delicious rip.

The flies, nearly a dozen of them,
made a home around me
rolling and buzzing jovially
one hovered in the air
for a few crystalline seconds
before falling hopelessly.

I picked it up and pinched it,
blood now squirting down my fingers
– a bright, luminous red that reminded me, it was time for breakfast –
I stood up and gazed down
collecting each one by its wing
to place it on a magazine.

I  went out into the kitchen,
which was a mess of dried sauce
and it stunk of overcooked meat
I rolled the flies onto a plate
and placed it in the microwave
listening as each one would
bloat and balloon, puff and swell
into an enormous, carnivale “POP!”