Two poems by Carolyn Adams

Fruit Fly

by Carolyn Adams

I’m not sure why

I killed it.

I’m not sure why

I’m telling you this.

It wouldn’t leave 

my page.

It danced nervously

from ink to edge,

to center space,

then backed off

the tablet binding,

only to return,

to sip

at what 

I was thinking.


by Carolyn Adams

One day that summer, 

Dad cleared nests

from the eaves.

Mom distracted me

with a trip to town.

When we came back, the ladder 

stood against the house.


I didn’t see the nestling 

until later,

curled in the grass

like a lump of heart.


I marveled at

the small alien.

Bulbous blue head, spine still

in fetal clasp, needle sprouts

of wings, tiny bumps

of nascent feathers.

Translucent violet bruising.

Eyes closed,

its surrender was complete. 


I nudged it

with a stick, noted the many colors

on its ruined body.

I wondered at its simultaneous

absence and presence. 

And because I knew 

it would be expected 

of me, I ran 

into the house, 



Carolyn Adams’ poetry and art have appeared in Steam Ticket, Cimarron Review, Topology, Apercus Quarterly, and Blueline Magazine, among others. She is the author of four chapbooks, and has been nominated for a Pushcart prize, as well as for Best of the Net.