preciate winters in Minnesota) while listening to Garrison Keillor and his Writer's Alamanac on NPR (another good thing from Minnesota). The end of the daily Almanac is always a poetry reading by Garrison, a master narrator, as you know if you've ever heard the Almanac or his weekly monologue on A Prairie Home Companion.Having successfully rid my space of the intruder, I was inspired to write a poem myself, something I haven't done much in recent years, but which I enjoyed with my former partner back in the 90s (how time flies). Perhaps my reconnection with her by email (she lives in Minnesota, where we used to enjoy seeing Prairie Home in person) is part of the inspiration, in which case, this one's for you, Rita.
What Was God Thinking?
It was dry all summer in Asheville.
The drought went on and on,
and so the mosquitoes took a vacation also,
no doubt living the high life in Minneapolis
where the human inhabitants endured the deluge,
rain followed by tiny buzzing blood-suckers.
I opened the doors to welcome what breeze
might wander by at noon in North Carolina in August
and left them open into the cool evening
secure in the knowledge that the hungry horde
was visiting elsewhere.
Now I am in Orlando in January
but I must keep shut tight day and night
against the mosquitoes
who, nevertheless, daily discover
It was dry all summer in Asheville.
The drought went on and on,
and so the mosquitoes took a vacation also,
no doubt living the high life in Minneapolis
where the human inhabitants endured the deluge,
rain followed by tiny buzzing blood-suckers.
I opened the doors to welcome what breeze
might wander by at noon in North Carolina in August
and left them open into the cool evening
secure in the knowledge that the hungry horde
was visiting elsewhere.
Now I am in Orlando in January
but I must keep shut tight day and night
against the mosquitoes
who, nevertheless, daily discover
some tiny portal
into my private space,
three tiny morning bumps on my itchy ankle
proof positive of their presence.
I suppose I will never be a good Buddhist
(not that I seriously aspire)
for I cannot deduce the reason for the creatures
and I refuse to share my home with them,
virus vectors with skin-irritating spittle who
unlike wasps and spiders
will not be coaxed and cannot be carried
out the door—
their love for my corpuscles being so strong—
and so must be squashed in self-defense.
God knows it hurts me more than it does them
knowing that each tiny annoying Culicidae is in fact
an expectant mother
whose sole purpose is to reproduce
and who must imbibe a bit of my blood to do so.
Well I say
Let her eat cake.
into my private space,
three tiny morning bumps on my itchy ankle
proof positive of their presence.
I suppose I will never be a good Buddhist
(not that I seriously aspire)
for I cannot deduce the reason for the creatures
and I refuse to share my home with them,
virus vectors with skin-irritating spittle who
unlike wasps and spiders
will not be coaxed and cannot be carried
out the door—
their love for my corpuscles being so strong—
and so must be squashed in self-defense.
God knows it hurts me more than it does them
knowing that each tiny annoying Culicidae is in fact
an expectant mother
whose sole purpose is to reproduce
and who must imbibe a bit of my blood to do so.
Well I say
Let her eat cake.
No comments:
Post a Comment