Donna Isaac
I've been killing flies all day,
black ones like plump raisins.
They buzz on window screens
or in cupboard cracks so no swatter
can crush them. One sits in
the refrigerator, laughing
behind the milk carton.
It barrel-rolls into the kitchen and hides.
I blame the chipmunk that scurried
through the open basement door
and ran down the heat register.
Deep in the slippery ducts
below the golden grate,
nature had its way. Death
bred life. After ten days
of chase and carnage,
they're finally gone.
So many broken wings,
so much Dickinsonian allusion
especially after my friend's
sudden funeral shakes blue
all around the house.
[Check out Donna Isaac's back porch interview]
