Buzz Poem by Charles Malcolm

The fly sees you
through miniature disco balls
from eight-thousand angles.
Every word that you speak
vibrates through his entire body
like the bass in a Puerto Rican Buick.
The fly is trapped
and you
are his entire life.
He sees and feels nothing
but betrayal
with every thoughtless swat.

The bullet sees you
for a fraction of a second,
unaware why the primer was struck
and the powder was ever poured.
The bullet understands loss,
separated from its shell case
with explosive and irreparable force.
He will settle in your heart
with a restful grin
after tearing through your palm
and between your metacarpal bones
as you desperately swat.

If I am something
just to be swatted
I would rather be the hollow point
aimed at your chest
than the dying fly
on your bedroom wall.