A hot, restless night in a room with a ceiling fan that only pushes warm air around. The speaker is woken by mosquito bites, burning and itching, and gets up to hunt them down. He switches on the light, kills one or two, and feels a small, grim satisfaction in crushing them, though the smear left on the tiles is his own blood.
The most striking moment comes when he sits naked on the floor and watches a mosquito feed on his thigh. He imagines her belly filling with his blood, and the bite suddenly feels huge, compared to a catheter shooting through his nerves into his brain. The repeated "I could feel it" makes the pain vivid.
The mood is irritable, sweaty and weary, with a touch of dark humour. The poem ends quietly, with the speaker sulkily scratching the bump and asking why only the female of the species drinks blood. The question is half joke, half grumble.