By Jason Primm


In the real story,
the half man half fly
doesn’t want to die.
He’s not that noble.
A hard understanding
is forged between
his two halves.
They know what
not to discuss.
He stays in his lab
and drinks the milk
laced with brandy
that his wife leaves
outside the door.
With his human hand,
he types words,
and with his shortened
black trimmed forearm,
he makes the periods
and question marks.
The fly half
knows that it has a genius
for starting and stopping.
This must have always
been so, but it’s new
The man half
loves the heightened
sense of smell. A brown
banana on the counter
is like reading an old
Russian novel,
but he misses speaking.
He misses the act of love.
Even if she were willing,
he knows it would be
cruel to ask that of her now.
The thing the fly half
misses most isn’t flying;
it’s forgetfulness,
the inhabiting of each
moment completely
without the film
of memory or expectation
clouding its eyes.
The man half remembers
another name for this.

Jason Primm pursues modest goals in a coastal city. When he isn’t writing, he can be found sharpening his slice backhand. His work has most recently appeared in Rust + Moth, Jelly Bucket, Heron Tree, Literary Orphans, and The Southern Humanities Review. He maintains a blog at 

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