Tina L Porter

Summer’s Lover

Grace, Poetry No Comment

There is a mosquito in my house, devouring my flesh
one infinitesimal poke
after another

Along the hairline
that area that is
neither cheek
nor chin
neither scalp
nor ear

And on the
back of my neck
and inching down
my arm
leaving minute hickeys
loving me, my body,
my blood

he cares not for my comfort
like that guy
playing the piano
till his girl comes
back

the lover I
never wanted
who wrecks the
soft, late-summer night
who is also cooing
and wooing Fall

while I scratch
my chin and scalp and
that place that isn’t either
fondly swatting away the
summer holdout
who thinks he’s found
his forever home
right there
alighting on
my flesh

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