“LAST NIGHT'S LOVERS”

She begins tickling
me on the webbing
'tween my fingers.
I glance down,
bow my lips and blow
in her direction.
This is not my bed
and
we'd only just met.
She wants what she wants
with no time to know me
beyond my pale suit
of skin.
Undistracted, she prances
an advance up my wrist,
over my neck,
and in an instant she is
lost
in the tangle of my beard.
She whispers into my ear
grooves, her name,
a foreign language. Before long,
her friend has entered the bed.
I thought Canadians spoke French.
I am bitten by an attention
I never knew to exist in Seattle.
I am too tired to fight
their mutual aggression.
So all night
long I let them have
all of me that each could consume.
As I begin to doze, I sense as each
leaves filled.
By morning, I stand alone, naked,
before a lanky bathroom mirror.
My body is covered
in tiny pink bumps
and I presume each
is now with child.
I begin to regret
that
last night's lovers
were
female mosquitoes.

narrative poem written on 07-10-2013 by: on mattkane.com
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