Lauren Scharhag writes

A Feast for Mosquitoes

I love the mountains: the Blue Ridge,

the Great Smokies with their dim charcoal halos,

the aspen-crowned Rockies.

At those altitudes, I am one of the few

who breathes more easily,

relieved of the fear of insects,

arms and legs bared to the cold, clear air.

When I was three years old,

I spent a month at Children’s Mercy:

sepsis from an infected mosquito bite.

I had to endure shots thrice daily;

but even at that age, I paid attention

to what preceded the pain.

I learned the rounds, and one day,

when I knew the doctor and his hypodermic

were imminent, I locked myself in the bathroom.

I was afraid of the dark, and too small

to reach the light switch,

but I refused to come out.

A janitor was summoned with a master key.

It took three nurses to drag me back

to the bed and hold me down.

As I struggled, my grandfather’s face appeared

above me, locked in a grim acceptance.

It was the same look he got whenever

he dug splinters out from under my skin

with his pocketknife, or that time

I stepped in broken glass and left a trail

of bloody footprints up 21^st.  

All my life, people have joked

that my blood must be sweet,

and it’s true that mosquitoes

have discriminating taste.

The moment I step out-of-doors,

a brown cloud descends,

necessitating long sleeves and jeans

despite the heat.

Once, just walking

to the next-door neighbor’s house,

I garnered eighteen bites.

Once, I wore sandals

for an evening stroll,

and my feet were so ravaged,

I couldn’t wear shoes for a week.

Every year, I wonder if my body

has changed enough for them

to move on, and every spring,

I get my answer in the form

of itchy red welts.

But I get some of my own back:

keeping cans of foul aerosols,

putting up bat houses,

releasing spiders into the garden,

and lighting fat, pungent pillars of citronella

while offering a prayer to whatever patron saint

delivers us from bloodsuckers.

 Mosquito Festival -- Remedios Varo