Mosquito

    0
    364

     

    To leave the light on is to let them in, the drone:

    their arrival thick in your ear, denying sleep.
    My brother rests more deeply than me;
    he wakes covered in their raised kisses. The love

    they take for their children. My blood is bitter;

    they do not like the taste. I go down to the gutters

    where they breed, hatch and feed in the tepid

    airless water. I stand at the edge;

    wait so still I might be a tree, or hanging
    from a tree. They know me and do not settle –

    my hands would smear their stained-glass

    wings; pink-amber bellies crushed
    black and red between the hairs of my legs,

    brother-blood on the palms of my hands.