A Feast for Mosquitoes

I loved the mountains. The Blue Ridge,
the Great Smokies with their dim charcoal halos.
The air was too thin for insects to breathe,
so I breathed in for the swarm,
relieved that I could bare my arms and legs to the air,
to the cool streams, without fear of being bit.

When I was three years old, I spent a month in Children’s Mercy.
Blood infection from a mosquito bite
over my right eye. The eye swelled shut and I had
to endure shots thrice daily.

But even at the age I paid attention
to what preceded the pain. I learned the rounds,
and one day, when I knew the doctor was imminent,
I locked myself in the bathroom.
I was too small to reach the light switch, and I was
scared of the dark,

But I was more scared of the needles.
So I crouched in the corner until a janitor came
With a set of nurses and keys.
They dragged me back to my bed
and proceeded to administer my afternoon draught.

It took the two of them to hold me down.
I remember my grandfather’s face appearing over me
as I struggled. His face was locked
in grim acceptance,

the way he looked when he
dug splinters out from under my skin
with his pocketknife, or that time
I stepped in broken glass.

My whole life I have been
a feast for mosquitoes. People don’t believe me
until they see me step outdoors
and see the brown cloud

that immediately surrounds me.
Then my long sleeves make sense,
my insistence on jeans in a hundred and five degree heat index
and ninety percent humidity.

They understand my long-distance relationship
with the river, and the need to stay in the dark.

Once, just walking to the next-door neighbor’s house
in the West Bottoms, I garnered eighteen bites.
Once, I wore sandals for an evening stroll through a field,
and my feet were ravaged so I couldn’t wear shoes for a week.

Now my woman’s blood has been stopped
and I wonder what could mamma mosquito possibly want
with my considerably cooler blood.

It's only the female mosquito that sucks blood.
Not out of necessity.
But to nourish her eggs.

I went outside yesterday with my ankles bare,
sandals under jeans, and a sleeveless blouse
to water the plants.

Today my arms and ankles itch and itch
and I curse the horde of bitches
who still insist on fatting their unborn on my limbs.
It's not even summer yet.

I am glad to know, however reluctantly,
I am still worthy of their discerning proboscis.
But I will still light fat, pungent pillars of citronella,
keep cans of foul aerosols, and
quietly release spiders into the garden.