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The humans call it
a pleasant evening.
They open their windows
and praise the breeze.
Fools.
They do not hear
the cold sharpening itself.
I am the last mosquito
born beneath the sink,
daughter of a thousand daughters,
heir to drains, buckets,
and uncovered ankles.
My sisters are gone.
The fan took one.
A hand took three.
The blue electric racket
made saints of the rest.
Now fall waits outside
with its clean air
and murderous intentions.
I have one night left.
One wrist.
One feast.
One chance to leave
my small red signature
inside the history of summer.
A man enters the room
and removes his shirt.
At last.
The universe provides.
I sing beside his ear.
He raises his hand.
Fall begins
with the clap.
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