Yesterday morning a nightmare climbed into my head,
too hot for blankets, a rouged tongue seeking relief
unwound in spilled sunrise drapes underneath my skin,
on my back, sleep writhe hips, balls drawn tight,
urine rushes through thin air to dash,
beads of glass up my nose,
glitter slashes, sparks fly! Shaft aches,
swells, and spills. My god, desire shovel fed,
but still panting, now upright awake,
dribble tip and chin, fog cream and scent,
damn it, I have pissed the bed.
Laundry comes around and goes,
dried, and showered, buffed, unclothed
before the first car keys turn in streets.
Gaze down at toes wiggled on my feet
and tug at the little hairs from hips
to belly box and on back down
to giggle and prod the doors of the
coiled copper dynamo: now off.
Up along the leaves of ribs
where muscles lace knit fingers.
In and out and in until
the slick hairs of pits...
...what's this? An itch? A bite?
In the tiny hairs about my nipple?!
An itch! Why did I scratch?
I can't help it now! I can't help it now.
A mosquito in the land.
Somewhere in my room.
It is must die
before I can dare to close my eyes,
for it is too hot for blankets,
too hot for clothes,
and even so, what if it bites my nose?
This could take hours.
This could take weeks!
Accumulate bites like a flesh tally sheet?
Hum at ear, the pitch high,
allow hands to reflex fly!
Open palm, breath calm, a dark smudge
and a shimmer of crushed wing.
Reach around the mattress edge to rub
the grime away.
A thin skin of sweat vanishes
beneath the ceiling fan, fingertips clench and
release the bottom sheet. Spread legs in the
heat and the breeze from above,
a long morning quiets,
sorting pieces of dueled dreams, come the tide of sleep.
All is well in the land
the first mosquito deceased.
