Michelle Penn

            She  sees  only  the  flies,  flies  flitting  about  the bed in the

            operating   room,  Field   Hospital   C,  Danang,   the   name

            echoing   like   two   bells,  chiming   then  fading   to  stone,

            replaced  by a  distant beep and  the flies, flies and a slurred

            recollection   of   her   daughter's  voice  on   the  telephone,

            something   about    after,   something   about  Thailand  and

            the flies,  their  wings   like  rotors,  a  strange sound for flies

            but  maybe Vietnamese  flies  move  in  a  different language,

            and   they’re  flying   while   she  lays   still,  encumbered  by

            strings    or   wires,   trailing  from    her    nose,   her  arms,

            something  beeping,  and   the   flies  with  their rotor wings,

            darting  squares   in   air,  landing   on  the   tray  where  the

            scalpels  are  spread,  then   taking  off  again,  and  why do

            they trace  hard  squares  while  their  wings  are  rotors and

            rotors are round, none of  it adds up  and  maybe  she’s also

            a fly,  somehow  snared in  wires  and  strings, a fly tethered

            to  a  bed  or  maybe  the  earth  while the  others beat their

            wings,  the  steady  rhythm  of  rotors  but  then  the  flies all

            land  at  once,  their  feet  tickling her  face,  her  hands, no

            more  rotors,  just a  soft  buzz  and a  distant beep then she

            is  lifted,  hot air, a  deep  cool, a cloth  brushing  away  the

            flies, flies  fluttering  silent  wings  and  disappearing  into  a

            clean  white  wall,  then  a white bird  surfaces, a featherless

            bird,  whispering,  you're  in  Thailand  now,  your  daughter

            is  flying  over, and her  daughter,  flying from far  away, she

            hopes her daughter will wear her feathers.