by Rawda Aljawhary
When the mosquitos make small
irritated craters in the skin of my feet,
flies find the center of each bite. Today I find three
flies, noses together, back legs pointing out—
a clock with three hands.
Like a peasant, I’m used to the flies.
They make the crater ooze
its clear liquid in a tiny line, the sudden
twinge of pain alerts me to their presence.
Irritated, I shake them off.
They walk along my eyelid,
and it is merely a lock of hair
tickling my skin in the wind.
But I do not know
how the woman waiting for bread
allows flies to wander
the inside of her jutting lip.
Or how her granddaughter
lets them nestle
inside her ear and fly out again, a troupe
of divers from a springboard.