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? |