Hope you have a beautiful day. :) A poem from the POV of the mosquito...The sentences should read quickly but ironically, with the rhythm and line breaks, it forces a slow read...something I did on purpose. Desktop shows proper line breaks. Ha, if anyone cares but me. Just a little trick I learned, a hint into my craft. Love to you, C.A.
From the Mosquito
I guess I'm here now, which was quick. The water is cold this time
of year. I'm the only one
skimming the surface. Indeed, I could hide inside
the tree's hollow. Earlier,
I was spent from trying. How high
does a damn bridge have to be.
I could give up and throw up makeup,
the sweet taste of old caffeine, smoky cigar skin,
and all of the horrible sweat -- exercisers and sleepers --
and enjoy the dirty, wind ride
home. Or I could rest within
a deserted wrinkle. Yesterday, earth-hidden, a fresh, male one
pitched a green/tan tent
on the bike trail. Suddenly, he was mine. I slipped through
the underside hole, digging
into his thigh, leaving him
shrieking. At the back, I spied a black,
smiley face
spraypainted on his cooler.
I guess he was grinning too. Illegal free rent,
and even though
the pesky chill covered that morning,
I then heard a rustle. The delicious buck spied on me,
and I thought about the tricky dive,
aiming for tail end,
but the hell tick
blocked me mid-back-hair,
and with sunrise, the branches -- our shared, lawless branches --
burned orange with light,
and our whole scene
turned into fire. Funny,
later, safer, I flew to the office. Caddy corner, the boss man
called the woman a twig.
Aside, I rolled my eyes,
all one hundred lenses. I'd visited her before. She's lived through
an above-average, human
war zone. Ninety-eight percent of people like her have turned into heat, no more
than the vapor zone.
Even still, five days a week, forty hours, she stayed.
Resting on the desk, checking
my reflection in her ring,
I had all the time in the world.
When she was typing, I recalled the time
when I stabbed through
her open-toed shoes, expertly
finding the vein. Back then, people left rear windows
cracked. Hands were easy targets, and car phones made men mad,
buzzing without reception.
Even then, I planned on becoming
famous, with or without
tasting roadkill, mascara, perfume,
or lotion. I always knew that wasn't the answer,
but I heard the swarm. The others believed that once
we were known, we could live
forever. But the answer is this:
we mosquitos bite for the blood type.
Time to find another, before they team together, like people do.
What if tomorrow, the white room,
the paper, the printer, and the grey
walls vanished. The girl could pack her blue car
and drive several directions,
because once, I heard her whisper
that all she ever wanted to do
was shoot pictures of the happy
cooler, unzipping the tent's nylon to find his peculiar eyes --
whether caked, lined, or untouched --
suddenly staring back. Soon, he would reach out his right hand,
smack and miss, scratching the itch,
feeling the trace
of what I always left behind -- the tiny speck of blood
staining his pointer finger
red. He could taste it, or he could touch her cheek,
making a print. And only then, according to god's unwritten rules,
I'd be forbidden from the return,
but I'd never be forgotten.
I'd simply leave them
together
and tear away
laughing.
C.A. MacConnell
