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~ Hookworms like maggots Flies waking a sleeping child No recovery ~ The opening line — 𝘏𝘰𝘰𝘬𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘮𝘢𝘨𝘨𝘰𝘵𝘴 — collapses two kinds of violation into one image. The hookworm burrows unseen, working damage from within. The maggot consumes from without, openly, industriously, without shame. To draw them together is to describe a world where flesh is simply material — to be entered, eaten, used. The biographical weight here is devastating. These are not abstract creatures. They are the organisms that fed on the hindquarters of a beloved dog, converting living warmth into their own propagation. The poet witnessed this. He carries it. The second line pivots without relief. 𝘍𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢 𝘴𝘭𝘦𝘦𝘱𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥. The maggot's life cycle closes the loop with a kind of cruel logic — the same rot that fed the larvae now fills the air with wings, with buzzing, with the interruption of rest. Sleep is the one small mercy available to the grieving, to the exhausted, to anyone undone by helplessness. The fly denies even that. It is not malicious. That is almost worse. It simply exists, indifferent to the suffering it extends. 𝘕𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺. Words that function less as conclusion than as verdict. Not 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘧 — but 𝘯𝘰 𝘳𝘦𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺, which implies something has been permanently lost. The dog, certainly. But also the hope of finding 𝘢𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘢* for the lowly fly. *ahimsa -  the ethical principle of nonviolence, non-harming, and compassion toward all living beings, including oneself. ~ This observation was made with the assistance of claude.ai. ~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ To support me, visit: https://tinyurl.com/andy-rukes ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~