THE MOSQUITO

doesn’t like my O negative blood. Goes

for succulent positive flavors. Sitting on my veranda

late in the evening with a glass and remnants

of runes and letters in different shapes and forms,

I offer my slim pale arms and ankles

—blood veins writing their underground story—

At night, too, grating against walls and blinds

but never landing, making me think and rethink: did

that actually happen or did I just want it to have

happened. To be real. Even if it’s only a longing,

a drop of shiny sticky drop of blood left

on our kitchen floor after the dog bite. My father

telling me it was nothing and reciting a poem

full of stoic phrases, “If” by Kipling or was

it Goethe that night or Homer? Or did he kneel

by my side and wash my hand clean, kiss it

and put on a bandage brushed with honey?

TRAMPOLINE, Issue 10

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