the low whine of a mosquito rings deep in my right ear
even though I’ve pulled my sleeping bag very tight around my face
I can’t escape it
mourning on the farm
bees thrust themselves into the window screen, their bodies hanging heavy in the humid air
at this point, I can almost discern the order of insect by the tenor of its wing-beats
I prayed for rain last night and it came
a mosquito has taken a bite out of my ass
she needs the protein in animal blood to form her eggs
alternatively:
world’s deadliest insect
how you drink my blood like you earned it
every time my blood is drawn at the doctor,
I get worried about where it gets disposed
at least I know where this blood is going:
mosquitos’ larvae
wriggling below the scummy surface of dishwater I haven’t yet drained
tired water pools gently in the cast-iron skillet,
soaking last night’s dinner off in swollen flakes
I spray bug dope up my legs until it sloughs blue nail polish off my toenails
all the while thinking:
drink and be whole again beyond confusion.
KATIE CORRIGAN is a recent sociology graduate of Middlebury College working in environmentalism and food sovereignty. Her work is concerned with how connection to place, femininity, and longing show up in the body. Her poems have also appeared in GRLSQUASH. She’s based in Chicago, Illinois and Casper, Wyoming.
lemon yellow press 