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.