Flies
Word of the murder moved swiftly
up and down my small town street
in the humid heat of that July morning
before the news crews with their cameras
descended like gnats on the neighborhood
to capture what they could of the carnage
a bloody palm print inside the back door
the sheet bearing scarlet stains
in which she had wrapped his body
after stabbing him thirty two times
in his sleep before concealing
his corpse in the bedroom closet
spread out on the grass as flies gathered
like the crowd behind the police tape
seduced by the scent of death
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