She was the one who went off on her own.
She was the one who filed for the divorce.
You gave her what she wanted in due course.
Still she will never leave your life alone.

Available through email more than phone,
You have remained a favorite resource.
She contacts you supposedly perforce,
Less for herself than for a son long grown.

She seeks a certain something left behind,
A sterling ladle or an antique chest,
A recipe or record you must find.
Your common past has yet to enter rest
Since fire so often burns within her mind.
For smoke fly’s sake, you try to do your best.

*****

Jane Blanchard writes: “I came across the Latin term for this insect in an article in The Guardian about New York City in the summer of 2023, and the metaphor seemed curiously applicable to a particular person. A somewhat-Petrarchan sonnet then manifested itself. 
New Yorkers baffled by tiny flying bugs swarming city in wake of smoke | US news | The Guardian
On the Ecology of a Smoke Fly, Microsania imperfecta12 | Annals of the Entomological Society of America | Oxford Academic
I am gIad that Clarence Caddell chose to include the poem in the second issue of The Borough.”

A native Virginian, Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her collections with Kelsay Books include Metes and Bounds (2023) and Furthermore (forthcoming, 2025).

Photo: “Microsania” by Guilherme A. Fischer is licensed under CC BY-NC 4.0.