Drosophilia midgut

I watch the death throes of the common housefly—

or, should I say, another common housefly—

and feel nothing but a faint revulsion.

I consider the likelihood that this nauseated fascination

constitutes sadism.

Should my mothering instinct be kicking in,

my usually anthropomorphizing cuing me to rescue him?

Pity of some sort moves me,

makes my ankle twitch, a dangerously accurate imitation of euthanasia.

I wonder about the kindness of it being quick,

of ending it—

but then I think of the crunch

and of residue on my flat sole,

and pull back,

and retract the empathy,

and feel nothing but a faint revulsion.