Ask the Locals
Nobody knows how those so-called revolutionaries who wanted 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 sucked the blood of their victims to forget what kinds of torture they did, with their bare hands or with other kinds of hands, the kinds with teeth. I’m not trying to scare you now. Just letting you know if you scratch your arms like that a huge welt will appear like a rash, will take months to fade (or forget as it goes), and those mosquitoes will keep coming for you. You heard it from me. Don’t scratch their real names. Toothpaste over that bump won’t soothe you, not on this one. I’ll tell you something personal: every time I hear their real names, I scratch my skin. I scratch my own name too. Mosquitoes. Call them mosquitoes. Like a nuisance. Just that. I know, I know… it’s been years. The past should be the past by now but not this kind. You have to protect yourself because this kind keeps going like that mosquito’s straw on your calf keeps sucking. You didn’t see it, did you? This is when I tell you: Don’t move. Slap.
Copyright © 2017 Monica Sok. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017