Dear Botfly

You are not a machine, but a mechanic
tooling out from under skin. And in
my head, you might take flight, alight
with chandeliers of sand. A man said
one is the loneliest number, but this
doesn’t square. I swore I’d shaken
you out, but my hair parted, and there
you were. Part of me, do you smart
with the sting of the repressed? I’m blessed,
but some day you’ll depart, a fingerwave
to your avuncular host. Then I’ll be lost.