When I came the fruit flies were monstrous
invading my glasses of cold,
white wine, gathering
petulantly
inside the rim, not stopping
at the surface
of my drink.
And you were delighted
by the movements of my hands
as I pulled the flies from my face
like a veil.
by Anne Cammon
Anne Cammon is a writer of prose and poetry. She curates the literary edition of Art Waves on WKCR, featuring contemporary writers and composers. She was honored to receive an Editor's Choice from PoetryMagazine.com.
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