How horrible it is, how horrible that Cronenberg film where Goldblum's trapped with a fly inside his Material Transformer: bits of the man emerging gooey, many-eyed; bits of the fly worrying that his agent's screwed him– I almost flinch to see the body later that's left its fly in the corner, I mean the fly that's left its body, recalling too that medieval nightmare, Resurrection, in which each soul must scurry to rejoin the plush interiors of its flesh, pushing through, marrying indiscriminately because Heaven won't take what's only half: one soul blurring forever into another body. If we can't know the boundaries between ourselves in life, what will they be in death, corrupted steadily by maggot, rain or superstition, by affection that depends on memory to survive? People should keep their hands to themselves for the remainder of the flight: who needs some stranger's waistline, joint problems or insecurities? Darling, what I love in you I pray will always stay the hell away from me.
From Animal Eye by Paisley Rekdal. Copyright © 2012 by Paisley Rekdal. Reprinted with permission of University of Pittsburgh Press. All rights reserved.