The Mosquito

by WINSTEAD SMITH

I RAISED my hand to swat the resting mosquito;
but death is death, no matter on whom it fall.
“God,” I asked, “though she isn’t your least creature,
she’s little enough. Shall I squash her on the wall?”

I waited and kept my awful hand poised there,
but nobody answered. I was weighing my right to wreck
the best-laid plans of mosquitoes when, suddenly noisy,
she was gone — and later bit me on the neck.

Not questioning God, but only doing His bidding,
that degenerate fly raised a tiny itchy tumor.
I’d swat her quick, if I knew where she is hidden;
but the joke’s on me and is likely divine humor.