Pregnant Fly Dead On My Windshield

the smear like a microdot of jam, i watched it,
wondered about her family, wondered if she’d
even known what hit her, with a brain only a
microscope could see. the crossing guard
barely registered, just another clown with
a whistle, the christmas lights were out so
no one cared about drone strikes in yemen
and nobody would until disney bought the
movie rights. pro tip: get morgan freeman
to provide the down-home gravitas, you’ll
need it when only the dental records abide
unmelted. down in the top-secret basement
the remote control pilot gorges on red bull
and pride. the long-range sniper dreams of
his mother. his mother says he’s her hero.
straight-a students invented a new way to
ignore the still small voice, the fork in the
road. picture the earth as a snow globe in
a black and white movie, ringed by angels
and antimatter playing quantum billiards
for all the marbles. i’m just trying to be
helpful. picture a narrow path. picture
a rumour of another way, insistently
haunting the billionaires’ barricades.

Darrell Epp’s poetry has been published in over 100 magazines on 6 continents. His third collection, Sinners Dance, will be published in 2018.

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