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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