the rock and the sickness, in four parts

i

the fly hovered over the windowsill, alone
the late afternoon sunlight
filtered through the cracked glass
suspending the fly in a beam of light and dust

it was a small room, to be sure,
a sparsely furnished nook
with one window in the back
and a solid oak door, firmly locked, in the front

the temperature in that small room
was rising rather quickly
resigning the fly to attempting to find
a way out

thus, he settled down on the windowsill
and approached,
ever so cautiously,
the paned glass

at first he merely taped it,
a gentle graze with his head
the window, stoic and firm,
remained unmoved

so, the fly tried again,
albeit this time only slightly harder
though, still,
to no avail

the afternoon sun, by now,
was beginning to fade,
having run its small, reflected course
from one side of the wall opposite to the other

the door remained closed

the fly’s overly cautious tactic
was not bearing fruit,
so he flew up towards where
the lowest pane opens to the world

but today,
despite the mounting heat,
it remained firmly shut

as he landed gracefully
on the small top of the lowest pane,
one covered with years and layers of forgotten dust,
he looked out.

there wasn’t much to see

the soot-covered window did not allow
one such fly to make any real,
educated guesses as to
what lay beyond

but the late night breezes that whistled through
and the prisms of color that beamed in and out
at high noon
whispered of something grand

his head reeling from his first two attempts at freeing himself,
the fly ran his many, thin legs
over the old glass and wood
as he scaled upwards across a small part of the pane

he found it to be the same all around,
and very much the same as before

a solid thud sounded from outside the room

it happened somewhere behind the fly,
who quickly spun around and,
hovering near the window,
faced the oak door

the sound, much to his dismay,
never echoed through again

he thought, perhaps,
that he may have seen the shiny, brass door handle jiggle,
but he figured not,
as the sun had been in his eyes

He turned back to the window
and the temperature continued to rise

the small window handles showed the most promise,
though the strength needed to turn it,
thereby forcing the pane open,
was far more than the meager fly could muster

he flew higher

by now twilight filled the small room
as the light began to leave the room,
the fly began to grow worried

he knew he wouldn’t be able to last much longer
than morning if he
couldn’t escape the nook

The air conditioning machine coughed to life outside

it would be of no use in the closed off room,
though,
but its quiet hum helped to illustrate
just how silent the new night had really been

the white noise was comforting
and the fly tapped the glass

the middle windowpane proved just as solid
and much harder to see

the fly stepped back and gazed upwards

tired from the combination of his efforts
and growing anxiety,
the fly laid down atop the central pane,
dust rising as his body met the metal

he fell asleep

ii

when the fly arose the room was ink

hardly a beam of faded light cut through the nook
and the fly’s eyes took awhile to adjust

the fly stood up slowly
and turned away from the window

it was useless

he had bumped up against the two different panes
countless times with no success
and the top, final pane
showed no more promise

he needed a savior

the oak door remained still.

by now the air conditioning system
had shut off and the silence caused
a ringing in the fly’s ears

he faced the door

though tired and rather famished,
the fly batted his wings
and flew towards the door handle

he landed on the knob and its brass
shown in the small reflection
of a wayward streetlight

he closed his eyes,
opened them,
and blinked

he blinked again and gazed upwards

a small beam of light
cut through the keyhole
but neither it nor the door’s edges
provided enough space for the tired fly to squeeze through

the fly, by now, was getting anxious

it was well into the heart of the night
and nearly all of his
reasonable escape options
had been exhausted

moving slowly,
he turned to face
where the handle connected
with the door

he sighed, and wished for a miracle

none came
he blinked
none came

the silence of that small room
seemed just as tiring as
his collective efforts had been

he laid down

the brass was colder than the sill
had been and the slight reflections of light
cast back hurt
the fly’s eyes

he strained to close them
and fell into a fitful sleep

just outside the window,
the sprinklers came on

iii

a stale heat accompanied
the first timid sunbeams
to penetrate the room

huddled atop the brass doorknob,
the fly opened its eyes

his small limbs cracked
as he pulled himself up

he found it much harder to move

the passing time in the room
bared down upon the fly

his hunger, stress, and exhaustion
was turning much more serious

he glanced at the door

small noises outside the door
had awoken him a number of times,
but no noise was ever
more than that

he exhaled

the fly gazed upon the windowsill,
the cracked glass panes,
and the rest of the room

it had,
he noticed,
changed subtlety over the night

dewdrops lined the window’s edges
and the heat that had receded during the dark night
was just now returning with
the rising sun

the fly looked on

from his vantage point on the door handle,
the fly could take in every detail of
his tiny world

he had been born there nearly a week ago,
his mother planting his egg
and moving on
days before his birth

about ten feet or so
from where he was born,
the fly smiled at the thought
and settled in to die

clutching his head
in a pair of his tiny limbs,
the fly closed his eyes

as his limbs began to harden
and his breathing grew strained,
the fly became happier

the world as it existed
inside him
was opening up just as
the world outside was caving in around him

an unbridled joy
race through his veins
and he edged closer to
the edge of the brass handle

his efforts, his decisions, his good and his evil
fell with him
as he folded his small wings
and pushed himself over the edge

the meaning of life
in that small room
had been his death ,and everything that had enslaved him,

his world,
his time,
his body,

were all overcome
the instant his compact body cracked
against the hardwood floor

iv

when the first wrecking ball
collided with the old building,
the small room shuddered

its supports held
until the dark oak door
crashed in under the ball’s weight

as the room fell stories toward the earth,
what meager dust was left
from the decayed fly’s body
drifted into the air

in silence, the dust,
for an instant,
became suspended in a solitary beam of sunlight,

as the windows,
doors,
and brass handles

of that tiny world
crashed in around it