Summer Song of Songs

“Come, my love, my dove,
my splendid meal,”
sing the flies of July
after the storm.

“Your neck, like a ripe melon,”
their drone intones,
“your thin ankles, alluring.
Your nostrils’ faint perfume
drives us close to madness–
your just-washed hair
a nest of coconut,
a summer field of hay
to dive and burrow in.

“You are irresistible,
and we are feisty and fierce.”