Mosquito
Humans don’t generally enjoy Mosquitoes. They are bloodsuckers, after all.
Although we may not understand their purpose, they are earthlings with as much right to life as we have.
A mosquito buzzed around my ear when I was at a shamanic council meeting in northern California. I was tempted to smack it against my ear. But I chose to see if I could negotiate a mutual agreement. I relaxed. I shut my eyes and went into a shamanic trance. I told the mosquito that I would not hurt her. I told the mosquito that she could take all the blood she needed. In return, I asked that she tell all the other mosquitos to leave me alone for the weekend. I could feel her sucking up my blood. She flew away and I noticed that my ear did not itch, as it usually does after a mosquito has struck. No other mosquitos bothered me over the weekend. Many of the council members complained about being bitten all weekend long.
Sometimes we just need to remember that all earthlings have a right to life. And we can sometimes negotiate a mutual agreement.
A sing song tune
Along with a woman’s voice
From my cell phone
Wakes me up this morning,
“Don’t move," Pain says.
"Ain’t I hurting you enough,
Already?”
I grit my teeth,
As I lift the blankets with my
Weaker, clumsier, less dominant
Left hand.
I wince.
The woman is still talking,
Telling me the morning news.
“Shut up!”
I don’t care right now.
I pull my legs over the side.
How the hell
Am I gonna get up
While I’m lying
On my only good arm?
I shove it out
And then push
Against the mattress.
My arm shakes as I rise.
I sit and breathe,
And breathe some more.
My feet reach out.
Pull one moccasin closer.
I breathe as I insert my foot.
I pull the other moccasin close
And put it on.
Pain bites my arm,
Burns my back,
And punches the inside,
Far inside of my chest
When I cough.
“You bastard!”
I want to yell.
“Ya can yell if ya want,”
Pain says from deep inside
My ribcage.
“But it won’t do ya any,
Not one teensy bit
Of good.”
I breathe slowly in
And stand up.
My right leg tells me to wait
Just a minute.
My right leg doesn’t want to
Let the pain
Know it is going to move.
I lean over to turn off the alarm,
To shut up the morning alarm’s voice.
My feet move forward,
Down the hall,
Across the living room,
To the dining room table,
To the little plastic bottle
With the blue pain pills.
I sit.
I breathe.
I dump out three blue pain pills.
“Damn it!”
Where's the water?
I hold onto the table.
Lift myself up.
I Breathe.
I walk to the sink.
I lean in
And push the lever
With my non-dominant hand.
Water pours.
I grab a cup
I Breathe.
I fill it.
I Breathe.
I turn off the water with the cup.
And take a sip.
I Breathe.
“Why do you have to be
So cruel?”
I ask pain.
“I ain’t cruel.
I just am what I am.”
“What is that
That you are?”
I ask pain.
“I’m your protector,
Your warning
Of impending
Harm.
I’m your alarm
To do something.”
“I don’t like you,”
I say to pain.
“I don’t expect you to.”
