Once I wrote a
poem about a fly I found dead on the windowsill. I was probably fourteen. Ever
since I’ve been fascinated by dead insects.
I sound
psychopathic.
But there’s
something weirdly beautiful about a frazzled moth on the porch at night, a beetle
paralyzed on the pavement.
Tonight I killed
a fly—somehow managed not to smash it. Glued to the magazine with gutsmear. I
held it up, turned it in the light. Emerald, perfect, legs curled and still. It
took restraint not to run through the halls displaying my murder, my museum
piece.
Why is this mesmerizing.
No comments:
Post a Comment