Summer breeds larvae
And we’re killing them with Windex.
Father said our house has a mosquito problem.
But I say they’re family; they share our blood.
We’ve exchanged our arteries since mid-June
for the brief month-long lives of insects.
We’re back in a different Genesis:
one where human flesh becomes sweeter
than fruit, where mosquitoes learn temptation
from our bruises—civilization and sin.
But here we are circling suburbia,
car engines in full-force, windshields
tearing away at exoskeletons. We hold
onto fly swatters, slamming bodies against
drywall and wiping away the blood
using toilet paper.
Our bloodline becomes the fuel to the hybrid
between sludge and dust. We drag them along
using the rubber soles of our shoes through
their nursing room. We exchange bruise
for bruise. I’m guilty of doing the same.