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hardy har har

 

Sarah Sloat

 

 

Swing Low

Last night as I slept,
I was visited by the holy mother
of all mosquitoes.
She flew in on the strings
of a Stradivarius -
a spindly priestess
of postponed vexation.

As she droned I dreamed
I was a sumptuous diva
aloft in a spiritual,
lifting my hymn
by an octave
like some fleshy angel
soaring for the high note.

In a gown of black lace,
the mosquito alit
to fiddle in the crook of my armpit,
where she was upstaged,
duly flattened,
by a hand swung down
in a rapturous clap.

 

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