The Poet Shouldn’t Try

I crave to write—
about a dead fly,
that roamed in my house
for a day and a night.

But when has death been
the inspiration of a poet—
if not when in scarcity
of all that’s thought and seen?

If not when nothing is left
or when nothing has started.
Cold hands write on death
when love’s still a subject.

But when has a poet written—
on love, when there’s a fly-
lying still, very still-
in an aesthetic kitchen?

It takes tragedy, not delight
for a stale poet’s mind-
sitting still, very still-
to convince her to write.

I crave to write on the dead fly
A poetry— the least a death deserves
to end it, end it all
to make it yet alive.

To continue with the fullstop—
to end with a dash.
talk about the transparent wings
getting wiped with a mop.

There’ll be no buzz in my dorm.
Alas! No tunes of call for mate.
No breeding for her henceforth.
No children of her to mourn.

How will it be known?
The death— has it been acknowledged—
in the times bygone?

Then there’s no use for poetry
Maybe I’ll stop the words
before the corpse— of the fly
ceases my insanity,
triggers my imagination,
makes me numb to the death,
to the skeleton-in me
waiting to be acknowledged.

HOW HEEDLESS! HOW IMPOLITE!
for a poet to write—
on the funeral inside
when there’s a dead fly
and unattended graves outside.
Maybe the poet shouldn’t try.