And this inconspicuous house-fly

Comes like a nagging brother,

Not of the same mother or same father as I,

I sit in my balcony on a folding chair, laptop warming my thighs

No table, tables are disasters, they don’t let you stretch legs,

Things keep bumping of.

The fly parks on my forearms like on a bonnet on maiden’s breast

As inconspicuously as finch feathers

Escaping the throng of whirlwind,

He spreads his proboscis over the skin

Wherever splashes of dal from the break-fast is spilled.

I can’t fathom what variety it was, the dal

The yellow, the red or green, all dals under wife’s hand

Turn yellow and taste the same-

It gives her the satisfaction of cooking varieties of the same stuff

And keeping my taste-buds under a tether.

I wait for the laptop to re-boot which being old crashed

It takes time, the tab on the USB port blinks.

My eyes stalk the wings devoid of hues

Bamboo-stick legs, brown compound eyes

And the big black proboscis

Which reminds me of horse’s dick,

Big, uninhibited, and ready to fornicate –

It doesn’t give good feeling

My arms being foraged this way.

The fly goes about its business here and there

Within the limited length of my limb,

Part of which now tucked under the old processer,

Sometimes the fly walks over the bristles of my hand,

So light, so watchful, so unaccentuated,

Defiant of earth’s gravitational force

The hairs don’t creak or show signs of bowing.

The fly still at the specks of the dal

Dropping his head from the high port,

His ass up and ass flaunting,

I think to swat the proud eager-beaver fellow

For keeping me from Geoffrey Chaucer –

I’d planned to read the Wife of Bath for unremitting delight.

Before I draw my member from under

Squaring the gadget with lop,

The fly at once takes off and from his high post

Looks me with villainous scorn.

 

                                                                 ~ Saranyan Bv 

                                                             Bangalore, India