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Dave Bonta
railroad crossing
all the train horns
I hear in my sleep
in the unloved woods
between train tracks and river
needles and condoms
a shirt abandoned
by the fire ring
homeless campsite
floodplain
mosquitoes turning blood
into whine
train horn
the forest pool’s murky surface
stippled with bubbles
mosquitoes rising
only as high as my knees
still drying their wings
West Nile virus
missing the heart-stopping
flush of a grouse
old charcoal hearth
the last butternut tree’s
mossy corpse
autumn equinox
a mosquito takes its first steps
walking on water
where water sits
at the head of the hollow
a bench for reflection
the not-rightness of it
this vernal pool collecting
autumn leaves
ecdysis
empty husks of former lives
sink into the mud
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.