Hunter of Flies
I was a lazy laborer
who made furrows out of song,
corralling herds of
my own hoofed silences.
A little dove
hunter of scarlet clouds,
plucking bits of sky
off of the backs of flies.
My father: “What good are you?”
And, true, I was good for nothing.
But I carried around a house
like a fly, on the palm of my hand.
One day, I set it loose in the countryside
and it went flying, looking for a place to land
until it sat upon the shoulders of some street.
I built its walls
with the wrinkles of my face,
and its windows,
human bite marks.
Its roof, long sleepless nights.
The neighbors said:
“The hunter of flies is rich.”
So I raise my eyes, like a tree.
And now I have a home.
Where my mother blooms,
her dulce de leche heart
and my sisters
are four rattling bells upon my wings.
My father says now:
“Blessed be,
Oh, hunter of flies and cities!”