MOSQUITO by Gu Gang

MOSQUITO

by Gu Gang

Ailing in a corner, the sunset flits by

like a mosquito.

Slender long feet, a slap,

limbs stuck to the grid,

sketches of tiny cracks

on a white tile.

Palm size, heat on the ice.

Rectangular window, an air vent,

a suck, the mosquito does what it does best:

blood transfusions.

Drilling a well on the skin, it carries

different blood types,

flaunting the world with its fishy smell.

Swinging a bamboo fan, a draft from left to right.

Plain shirt, sleeves rolled up in summer heat,

bare elbows,

dry and cracked in old age.

Unable to ever swing again,

flying flies are stuck to our glassy eyes,

as if salvation awaits.