Today on a nature documentary, I heard
proboscis defined, camera zooming in
on the mosquito's straw mouth,
through which males suck nectar.
And females? Blood. I’m born back.
The alchemy of their venom
gave me hives, wide welts
round as silver dollar pancakes.
Early evening, mindless of their descent,
I downed goblets of Montepulciano.
Sweating tannins, alone, I pushed open
screenless panes, dank dark unmoving.
All night they marked me, feasting
on thighs’ insides,heedless
of my misery thereafter,
a Roman summer day,
plucking ripe figs
off a Via Appia trellis,
plodding the Colosseum,
the ancient Catacombs’ stillness—
I blasphemed at every scratch
of prickly, smarting souvenirs.
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