by Frances Klein
There is a bug-bite on my inner thigh,
and did I fuck a mosquito?
Right now I can’t say no,
since the coolers were full
of Raineer and ice and lime beer-garitas,
and the mosquito was being particularly funny,
was making everyone laugh with his stories about work.
The mosquito looked so cool
with that ironic baseball cap
and an American Spirit perpetually smoldering
beneath his proboscis.
Clearly the alpha of the evening, hovering
just enough above it all
to make me feel chosen when he smiled
at my joke, listened to my story, pulled
his camp chair next to mine in the circle,
one tattoo latticed wing
brushing the back of my arm,
making me shiver–and the rest
is a blurred montage
straight out of first year film school–soft focus of hands
on thorax, intercut with legs on legs
And did I drink
was I drunk from?
did I fly?
Frances Klein is a high school English teacher. She was born and raised in Southeast Alaska, and taught in Bolivia and California before settling in Indianapolis with her husband and son. She has been published in So it Goes: The Literary Journal of the Vonnegut Memorial Library and Tupelo Press, among others. Readers can find more of her work at https://kleinpoetryblog.wordpress.com/.