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  • Writer's pictureSarah Donkin

Mosquito Bites

Mosquito larvae swim in the pond,

darting around and sharpening their tiny teeth,

and grow up to swarm on the front porch,

searching for healthy veins, but

I remember a few months ago, when

my skin was so numb in the cold

that my veins must’ve been nearly frozen,

too icy to be drawn from by tiny teeth.

Today, I could connect the dots of my

mosquito bites in the summer heat, and paint

designs on my skin with the lines,

itching, burning, feeling.

Every year, when winter dies, the mosquitos

come back, and when they bite,

I slap them with one hand and

wave hello, goodbye, and thank you with the other.

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