Her Immortal Housefly
This is not the fly Daddy swatted
Yet could neither squash
Nor frighten
It was an immortal pest
Born from the pencil lead
Of a five-year-old
I had heard the fly story and how
Mary was pegged: Artist
For this little stunt
That first small masterpiece
Though immortalized
Faded or was erased
Perhaps it was wallpapered
Over or covered by many layers
of flat interior paint
That little housefly portrait
Was her small start of limning
The world around her
She went on to depict countless
Human creatures often
Seated in chairs
The tale of the bug which
Would not flee or die
Became legend
It was an often repeated story
With no documentation
No evidence
Mary, at age eighty-three,
Drew another immortal
Musca domestica just for me
Yes, she could still draw a fly
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