Monday, December 9, 2013

Dead Flies

We call them icky,
the dry flies that lie
at the base of the sliding glass door –
the same door marked
with the red and black splatter
of what can only be called
fair warning.

We call them icky,
my toddler and I,
these individual proofs
that his mother
(warm breasted
cooer of soft sounds)
draws certain lines
that should never be crossed,
lines that, when crossed, result in
deadly thwacks
of faster-than-the-eye-can-see fury.

We call them icky,
wrinkle our noses,
purse our lips, run back outside
onto the prickly brown grass
for more of the stuff that makes him laugh,
the rough stuff that requires brawn
and a pleasant familiarity with sweat.
But first, we close the screen door –
all the way.

Reunion: The Dallas Review - Volume 3

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