That's what I name the baby fly

stuck inside our hotel room: twelfth floor,

Times Square, New York City buzz.

A trip with my thirteen-year-old daughter.

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She's all spitfire and I-hate-you,

perfect teenage storm. In mothering hell,

I gaze up from my bed and spot Sherman—

tiny teacup fly. For three days, I watch him

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climb dreary walls, worried a housekeeper

might martyr him. At night, after museums,

we walk to the triangle park: food trucks

jam-packed, fish tacos beneath fairy lights.

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Silent, my daughter eats her crêpe. I pray

sugar will sweeten her. Snagging a cup,

I take it back to the room—wait, lunge,

miss. At last, I clap it over Sherman

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and use a napkin to seal him in. My daughter

rolls her eyes. She rides down with me though, 

taking the elevator to the marble lobby,

exiting between buildings singed orange

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with summer sun: mounds of garbage,

sidewalk crowds—jackhammers, hipsters,

intoxicating urban thrum. You haven't achieved

anything in your life, my ex-husband once said

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to hurt me. With a falconer's gesture,

I raise my cup. Sherman spirals up,

and when my daughter laughs, setting free

the doves of her teeth, I know what I've done.