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.