Shooting you in the face with a fly swatting gun was not nice, Grandma…
…nonetheless, I pull the trigger and the spring lock releases
and the two fly swatters double smack you in the face
—and this wasn’t because I thought you a fly
or anything,
but there was a persistent buzziness
about you as you busy-bodied around the house,
cleaning and fetching…
and what a curious contraption
that thingy swatamabob was.
And you defecated upon me
affection, filth I did not understand
—maybe I really am a little shit—
but really, why the hell did you own that gun—not a regular fly swatter
—when there weren’t many goddamned flies about your place?
And I know you’ve been dead and all for awhile now,
but I’m pretty sure—I’m almost certain—you became that fly
I de-winged at day camp the summer after you became buzzless,
and I pulled off first its wings and next its legs,
one by one—and now that I think, it is probable
you have been every subsequent fly I swatted
since then—and, incidentally, I’ve been stuck up-
-on this matter like sticky paper,
and I am hoping to someday
to, like, maybe reunite with you
and be together dust mites, which are
in fact not flies, in some artsy gallery
somewhere, digesting together the dead?