Uninvited Company, 2:37 a.m.
At 2:37 a.m.
a mosquito announces itself
with the casual entitlement
of a billionaire’s son.
Not biting yet, just hovering,
auditioning the air.
I hear the pitch of it
near my left ear,
a tiny violin
tuned to my blood type,
playing an unsolicited solo.
That thin ribbon of menace
loops past my head.
I sit up, alert,
suddenly fluent in paranoia.
Every shadow is suspicious.
Every itch becomes evidence.
I applaud at nothing,
at nothing.
I consider sleeping with the lights on.
I consider karma.
I consider sleep
an outdated concept.
Somewhere in the room
it sharpens its ambitions,
watching me like a thought
I failed to finish.
I lie enticingly still,
as if auditioning to be furniture.
I offer it my hand.
It declines.
Apparently it prefers the ankle.
I swat the air wildly,
I hit the wall.
I apologize to the wall.
The mosquito pauses, offended,
then resumes its solo.
By 3:11 a.m.
we have reached a stalemate.
It has my blood.
I have dignity, arguably.
I swat at the air
with the grace
of an enraged chandelier.
I lie back down,
presumably victorious,
only to hear,
from somewhere near my ankle,
a second violin
tuning up.