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.