Flies
The flies around Jesus’s head at the end
Were big and clumsy and blue
The kind of flies that have fed on flesh
He didn’t have a free hand
To swat them away
They sipped at the blood on his face
Crawled in his hair
Crowded in at his eyes
He tried to blow them away
By jutting his lower lip
Out from the upper
Like a girl scooping ice cream
Will blow her hair out of her face
They never turned into angels
They were the same flies
The living wave away
He died with his ears full
Of their bluish drone
His last thought My God do I
Wish I had a free hand and a swatter