Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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Aubade Ending with the Death of a Mosquito
     at Apollo Hospital, Dhaka

Let me break
                        free of these lace-frail
                        lilac fingers disrobing
the black sky
                        from the windows of this
                        room: I sit helpless, waiting
                        once you drew from me
                        the coil of red twine loneliness
spools inside—
                        once, I wanted to say one
                        true thing. As in, I want more
from this life,
                        or, the sky is hurt, a blue vessel. Now,
                        we pass through each other
like weary
                        sweepers haunting through glass
                        doors, arcing across gray floors
faint trails
                        of dust we leave behind—he
                        touches my hand, waits for me
to clutch         
                        back. From this cold marble
                        floor, mosquitoes rise like smoke
from altars,
                        seeking the blood still
                        humming our unsaved bodies.
I make a fist
                        around this one leaving raised
                        raw kisses on our bare necks—
once I woke
                        to the myth of one life, willed
                        myself into another—how strange
to witness,      
                        sister, the nameless shape our
                        mingled blood impresses across
my open palm.    

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