…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?

DEVIN TAYLOR is a recent Washington College alumnus with a BA in English and minors in Creative Writing and Psychology. His work can be found in Gargoyle, Jersey Devil Press, Maudlin House, and elsewhere.  He lives in the DC Area where he plays his electric kazoo, mostly alone.