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Mosquito
by Christopher Walsh, 6/3/2018





Your entirety is sharp,
Angle stuck to angle stuck to angle,
Wings angry-droning in insistent searching for
Where to, sharply, poke your blood-nose
Into blood providers.
We run on blood. You eat it.
You can't think of the left-behind itchy welts you cause
(Let alone anything possibly malarial)
You just find meat then meat then meat
That could have what feeds you.
You might as well see blood everywhere,
A meat parade Clive Barker might write about
If he wanted to convey annoyance, not horror.
I know: you fit a niche,
You (and your billion-billion relatives) filling a role
That Nature prepped for something sharp.
You need feeding. So do I.
I'll still accept the small satisfaction
Of slapping you into bloodless lifelessness,
Ideally before you eat.
That sharpness ends, then.

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