Skeeters

So my blood became like oil beneath a sandy skin

one evening dim and moist by fireside light.

She took a stab to stick that boiled and itched

and then set sail against the tall grass bloated

with the fleeting luxury of flesh to reap

before her well of victims deep was dry.

The floodlights hummed and crickets pined—

The yard swings creaked in steady breeze—

And she flapped fury for this boy’s warmth

amidst the empty folding chairs and clotheslines,

but her hunger wasn’t quelled those nights

her well of blood went dry.

See, a bloated flyer is easily snatched

when in their search for energy untapped

for she’s made slow to flap away in time

to save the day (her abdomen now a heavy sac).

Her spoils drained, she’s snapped, and forced

to give back that stolen slick.

Running on empty,

Nestled in the draining light—

Stubborn prospector!

NEXT

--Poems from the Sprawl