The Suckers

Beauty will save the world. — F.M. Dostoevsky

It has landed on my neck,
getting ready to draw blood.

“Why the mosquito?” I said.
“Wherefore the malaria and the yellow fever?

All those parasites, viruses, nasty bugs;
what were they created for?”

And a voice said, “Look at a fly. Its days are short,
but even King Solomon in all his glory

wasn’t as magnificently dressed
as an ordinary insect.

The world was created out of nothing
and, if not for its beauty,

it would fall back into nothingness.
Beauty will save the world!”

“How can beauty save the world
if it cannot save a mosquito?” I asked.

And I smashed the sucker.

* * *

Here it is, on my arm
helping itself to a free drink.

“Hey, mosquito,” I said,
“what is the purpose of your life?

You haven’t been created just
to transmit diseases, have you?”

And it said: “Don’t be mean.
I must provide for my family.

A tiny bead of your blood
will sustain us for a while.”

“Bugs’ life matters,” it added,
eagerly piercing my skin.

“Matters to whom?” I said.
And I smashed the sucker.

* * *

I felt it dancing on my leg.

“You killed my sisters,” it said.
“That’s a crime against humanity!”

“I don’t think you’re human,” I said.
“You look like a mosquito.”

“There is some human blood in my system.
And there’ll be more in a tick!”

“I ate a steak tonight.
That doesn’t make me a cow.”

“Let’s not argue about metaphysics;
you know what I meant.”

“Yes, I do, indeed,”
I said raising my hand.

“I am willing to become a martyr.
You cannot kill an idea!”

“But I can dispatch a few idealists,” I said.
And I smashed the sucker.