Mosquito Soup and What It Meant – Basilike Pappa


There was a man who had mosquito soup for dinner

I should have told him what it meant

I laughed instead; scared him away

I want to tell him I’m not the same

but sometimes I run after windswept crumbs – 

the chase still alive under my skin

I want to finish that story where the rigor mortis of a major planet

dried the sea, left the fish flailing in the shallows;

I started it as we gin-fizzed against the yellow of the kitchen walls 

(egg-and-lemon sauce, the kind I detest) 

– I want to tell him what it meant, but it was in a dream, so it doesn’t matter

I was chemicals on top of everything else–

think of a smooth bandage over the present– 

and he held on to a bag of old clothes (when afraid, stand still) 

He was wearing them when his casual plan backfired underneath

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