Bed Bugs

She strips—if no one's home—in my kitchen, standingclean and day-creased by the sink. Stuffs clothes into a sleekwhite sack. Our arrangement since her roommate found a sign,a bite, an itch. It's been two months since that. And yet …

Yes, that's exactly when our language grew sticky, coatedour coaxing tongues. My girl. What we prefer is the forest,where the mosquitoes seem almost honorable, yielding clearlyto death: one belly-up on the hot dash. Another in the tent,

when after sex I trace its slow flight, pinch the ballasted bellybetween two fingers. Bright blood, like the flea's in Donne—It sucked me first and now sucks thee. How she relishesmy tiny conquering. But still won't let me in her bed,

so she comes in mine again, lifting from around her neckmy T-shirt, uncontaminated. I'd like to soothe her hidden headwhich never ceases pinpoint parsing. We're like that. Ongoingfallout zone, all hot possession. I empathize, hide my lips

when sick—throat aglow, voice aching and shut. Even thenwe can't hold back, just keep our faces at opposite ends, nottouching except to touch. After, someone's hand in the darkagainst the white sheets smears a reddish, nearly legible mark.