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Insect Reflection
Arlene Ang

"As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;
They kill us for their sport."
                — Shakespeare, "King Lear"

Did she feel the brush of winter that morning
like death combing through mud-tracked hair?

Three men in the park offered compliments,
then rough hands around her neck, a handkerchief
steeped in chloroform, the abandoned farmhouse
which smelled of old dung. No witnesses.

I kept quiet with my pen, ignored insects
on the white blanket around my knees. Hunting season
had began. My chief inspector gunned his moment
of glory together with flesh-eating larvae.

Did I really feel nails scrape my face from her torn
picture on my lap as I silenced her with ink?