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The fly lands on the edge of my sandwich
stands on four legs, rubs its front two together
as if about to break into song
break out a set of tiny silverware
break into some used-car-salesman lecture
that’ll make me give it my whole sandwich
maybe go make it another whole sandwich
to take home to its family.

I swat impatiently at the fly, send it off
without waiting to hear it sing, or speak,
or beg, because I have heard
that flies either shit or puke on food they want to eat
they do something disgusting to it, and I
don’t want to think about it. Instead
I rip the corner of the sandwich the fly was on
toss it to the dog sitting patiently in the corner
also watching me eat.

Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction, Grain, and Harvard Review. Her newest poetry collections are  In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press),  A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), Folios of Dried Flowers and Pressed Birds (, Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing), Into the Cracks (Golden Antelope Press), and Cross Referencing a Book of Summer (Silver Bow Publishing), while her newest nonfiction books are  Music Theory for Dummies and Tattoo FAQ.