Mosquito


Your wizened cry, your many pleas, mosquito,
summon me to anguished wariness,
to know your wish to kiss, lips unnoticed,
your moans for wine, your briny teeth sunk deep
to the brink of an itch, a chaste sixteenth of an inch
now violated, your roses raking my skin. 

Why do you want me? Why? You hover,
drop to pierce me, rise, ignite the stitch
of greased affliction with your spit. You sing
almost notes, like she struck, silencing.


Donald Zirilli
1998