The Mosquito

I killed the mosquito. We decided it was okay to do it.

Elephants beat at flies, volcanoes burn and bubble, trees fall and a spine is snapped,
monkeys spear bushbabies in their sleep.
First no, then yes! YES! It bit me earlier and I was itching,
hearing it's tiny wings whine: diseases sleep us you the future blood on my pillow
an open window welts mothers tiny arms needles in black fur
the open chest cavity the liquid
(it was shimmering, quivering the exposed heart afraid and alive)
and your ovens: rosemary and butter, my hands under skin
rubbing cool autumn in with surgical gloves salt eyes
brushing my face against the collar like making love to flowers
the secret corridor in the castle pushing up against the chair
I kept thinking there was more of you, even though you had left
kept crawling back into the bed with the light guillotine

Could we sit at the table, get to know one another first?

I felt mosquito wings on my cheek,
a very soft and gentle wind, like cat paw.
You were just tiny and delicate, hungry for something you needed,
hungry for me because I happened to be there
under the lamp, in the light.

There are more on the ceiling.
There will always be more, in the warm and the wet.
You forgot, didn't you?
Lemongrass and screens, honey.
Protect yourself.
We do the most damage.