In Solidarity with Frogs Whose Defence Mechanism Is a Bad Aftertaste Once They Have Already Been Devoured

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.

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