Fly, Reincarnation 

I'm up at 2 a.m.
and hear my late father's 
low grunting voice: "Up so early?"

Surprised, I stare round the room.
See no one. But a big, skinny fly,
flying around the lampshade, buzzing,
that sounds like old man.
That abominable insect. Dare to imitate
my father. I whack it with the book.

It zooms toward my face, nearly touch
my nose and disappears. 

From somewhere a faint buzzing.
But I see not; not good at finding things
as usual I am. Slowly it reappears,
sits on the top of the lampshade, stares at me,
circles around the lamp, buzzes in deep voice
of Buddha, and scolds:

"Do not kill anything alive, even a fly."
Reincarnation. What if it is my father?
I shake my head; absurd as magot.

Of all the good things, why would he reborn
as a dumb fly?

Mad for the lost hour of the morning reading;
I raise the book and aim at the fly. Knock it down. 
With a sigh, wrap the dead one in a paper and
set it on the dashboard. 
Now, you can say I'm a human. 

Still, common sense nags: born, grow old, and
die is beyond mortal's power;
so is reincarnation.

At least, I would bury it properly;

give the dead fly a flower garden burial.
So, I did. The moon nods.
Back in the bed, I hear the buzz. Still to come.
With doubt. Doubt of all things. 

©Byung A. Fallgren