Читать книгу A Nail the Evening Hangs On - Monica Sok - Страница 8

Ask the Locals

Nobody knows: How those so-called revolutionaries

who wanted so-called Year Zero so bad,

turned into mosquitoes. I mean, mosquitoes, right?

Because not butterflies or moths rolling

in the mass graves—we all know the moths are children

who didn’t make it past five. My theory is those creeps

suck the blood of their victims to forget

with their bare hands or with other kinds of hands,

the kinds with teeth. They forgot. Don’t forget: If you

scratch your arms like that, a huge welt will appear—

a rash, and those mosquitoes will keep coming.

You heard it from me. Don’t scratch their real names.

Toothpaste over that bump won’t soothe you,

not this one. I’ll tell you something personal: Every time

I hear their real names, I itch my skin. I itch my own name

too. Mosquitoes. Call them mosquitoes. This kind keeps going

like that mosquito’s straw on your calf keeps sucking.

This is when I tell you: Don’t bend.

Slap.