The Mosquito

Though always weak where killing is concerned

I killed. Thinking malaria, knowing

revenge, new-bitten, aware yes,

illogic—what matter danger when the welts

are on the skin already,

no more, you will have no more of me.

Up the curtain within the fold it walked

on spindled legs to the level of the hands

almost singing (your chance,

your chance,

you are god) and the hands

closed, one on either side of the fold,

obscene in prayer I and the hands I own

opened and the blood was there,

rounded the mark and I realizing

it, wings and needle, was swollen

with me, filled bursting with the blood,

there and mine and cannot be returned.

It was more me the thing than was itself,

oh forgive and how do we kill

greater things, god my heart

is not my heart, some stain

is on the curtain, was gone from me before

then, I killed, I kill now, mercy,

what are you but a thing among us more us

than otherwise that flies

and sings and stings—

I am afraid to close my hands

on you, forgive now and come

to my heart, forgive.