The Female of the Species

Lying beneath the ceiling fan that pummel me With gusts of hot air that refuses to leave my room; Sweating, half-asleep, I swap at the mosquitoes biting me.

It is midnight or so, but I wake up; my skin burns and itches. Switching on the light and switching off the fan I scan the room for those bloodsuckers and hit At one or two which lie on the floor. I have the immense satisfaction of crushing them with my toe Leaving a smear of my blood on the polished tiles.

Sitting on the floor cross-legged, in the nude I watch a mosquito landing on my thigh and stick its proboscis into me. I could imagine her stomach billowing with my blood. I could feel it, I could feel it, the needle breaking into my skin and the pain Like the catheter of angiogram shooting up through my nerves And into my brain.

Watching the risen little bump morosely, And scratching at it sullenly, I wonder Why only the female of the species suck blood.