How to Hurt a Fly
by Anthony Frame
I need you to call me so this sun can finally make sense,
my truck’s automatic headlights cutting off, the morning traffic clotting,
and, somewhere, you are sleeping. I still remember my desk,
students fanning the flies that bred beneath classroom floors.
I said there was nothing we could do, fly control requires
access to the source, a ruptured sewage line, a dead raccoon
rotting in the crawlspace. The sun splits these buildings as I sit
in this traffic and, this morning, the newspaper described the death
of my former student, his body broken and abandoned in an alley.
I know where you are, I was at your side, asleep, five hours ago,
but still I want to hear you say nothing has changed. Litter
and fallen leaves and what do I remember except that he was lazy,
that he bought his final paper? Sometimes, it's like I'm falling
in this stilled traffic, the way the few clouds seem wasted without rain,
four more hours of work, wondering if you're awake yet.
It's possible to pinpoint the exact time of death based on the insect
feeding on the body. Blowflies are the first to arrive. I remember
his nosebleed in class, I remember him holding the door for
a student in a wheelchair, I remember enough to still remember his voice.
Some days, I feel like a fly so say no amount of punctuation
would have saved him. Say you miss me too, say the ruffled blanket
isn’t enough without me. Lonely breakfasts and books
I’ll be too tired to talk about when I get home. Public radio news
and a few dirty roach jobs you’re too bored to hear. How I want
to remember your face as it wakes. Did we shred his papers
before the last move? I know I’ve asked so many times but say it again,
that light longs for something to touch. Tell me that when we fall
we’ll fall like the rain, our rhythm too quiet to show what's left in our wake.
my truck’s automatic headlights cutting off, the morning traffic clotting,
and, somewhere, you are sleeping. I still remember my desk,
students fanning the flies that bred beneath classroom floors.
I said there was nothing we could do, fly control requires
access to the source, a ruptured sewage line, a dead raccoon
rotting in the crawlspace. The sun splits these buildings as I sit
in this traffic and, this morning, the newspaper described the death
of my former student, his body broken and abandoned in an alley.
I know where you are, I was at your side, asleep, five hours ago,
but still I want to hear you say nothing has changed. Litter
and fallen leaves and what do I remember except that he was lazy,
that he bought his final paper? Sometimes, it's like I'm falling
in this stilled traffic, the way the few clouds seem wasted without rain,
four more hours of work, wondering if you're awake yet.
It's possible to pinpoint the exact time of death based on the insect
feeding on the body. Blowflies are the first to arrive. I remember
his nosebleed in class, I remember him holding the door for
a student in a wheelchair, I remember enough to still remember his voice.
Some days, I feel like a fly so say no amount of punctuation
would have saved him. Say you miss me too, say the ruffled blanket
isn’t enough without me. Lonely breakfasts and books
I’ll be too tired to talk about when I get home. Public radio news
and a few dirty roach jobs you’re too bored to hear. How I want
to remember your face as it wakes. Did we shred his papers
before the last move? I know I’ve asked so many times but say it again,
that light longs for something to touch. Tell me that when we fall
we’ll fall like the rain, our rhythm too quiet to show what's left in our wake.
Anthony Frame is an exterminator from Toledo, Ohio, where he lives with his wife. He is the author of one book, A Generation of Insomniacs (Main Street Rag Press, 2014) and three chapbooks: most recently, To Gain the Day (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2015). He is the editor of Glass Poetry Press and the poetry editor for The Indianola Review. His poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from Rattle, Crab Creek Review, Third Coast, Harpur Palate, The North American Review, and Verse Daily, among others. In 2014, his work was awarded an Individual Excellence Grant from the Ohio Arts Council. His website is www.anthony-frame.com.
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Issue 18: Summer 2016
Issue 18: Summer 2016