This year’s mosquito finds the skin
beneath cotton. Bites through corduroy.
This year’s mosquito has evolved to penetrate denim.
But this year’s mosquito
doesn’t know that I got a new tattoo
within the past twelve months;
that I’ve been having unprotected sex;
that I vacationed in the Falkland Islands
in 1993 and my veins are conduits for hypertension.
This year’s mosquito
doesn’t know that he is now
blood brothers with every
bedbug with whom
I’ve ever shared a motel.