the sugar bowl rests on the table, anchoring the vinyl tablecloth patterned with bowls of fruits that never became famous.

flies orbit around it like the sun, blissfully unaware of the fly paper hanging in the corner,
looming like God over the room.

a ceiling cemetery,
a paper paradise.

i look at the mummified insects and i wince.

my fingertips trace the rim of your mouth
and my skin pebbles.
i wet my finger and indulge in you again.

a fly trap awaits me.