Holy Sonnet 8

The Zika virus can’t be sent to hell.
You can’t put brain-eating algae on trial,
and the alligator that dragged that boy
into the lake won’t have to answer for
its sins — so why should I, just because
I’m a sentient being who can make
decisions of a sort, though I’m led by
nature just like anything else on earth?
But WTF do I know? I don’t know
shit about your plan, it’s written in wind
and waves and stars — so lobotomize me,
let me crawl away blasted by your blood,
a bug half-sprayed, almost dead, happy to
be squished and flushed at last, by you, for good.

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