a poem
Whether it is mine
or my love’s
I can’t be sure.
It could be both.
Just one spot of blood
where I pinched up
the mosquito
that had fallen stunned
from her encounter
with my swatter
on the ceiling.
Itchy
in the places
she had lanced me
with her needle nose
her foreign saliva
I had sought her out.
She was not hard to find
the only visible
living thing
on the white ceiling.
I could even see the blood —
my blood, the stolen blood
of my innocent
sleeping beauty —
encapsulated
in that tiny vial,
her swollen abdomen.
Her blood now.
She did not stir
as I fetched the swatter.
She did not stir
as I stood upon the bed.
She was full
resting
to let the blood
nurture her eggs
which she would lay
in a day or two.
I’m sorry
tiny mother
tiny thief in the night
but I was overcome
with petty vengeance
an animal urge
to protect my blood.
