by Petaluma Vale

After you’ve killed us with your disbelief,
we’ll be reincarnated.
It’ll be me and the three boys
in your New York apartment kitchen—
that’s us, the four houseflies,
stuck to the curling yellow strip of flypaper,
dangling helpless little circles
above the bread and butter.
You’ll walk in and stroke the cat,
put a book next to the butter.
We’ll strain our little compound eyes,
recognize the names of who we were.
We’ll sigh our little fly sighs
and wish we were the cat.

But we’ll just have to be grateful
that you didn’t squash us,
that you didn’t pin us
between the yellow lead paint
and a rolled up
Entertainment Weekly.

(first appeared in
Constellations vol. 1)