Eastern Shore Mosquitoes

They are smaller on the Eastern Shore,
thinner than the Midwest variety,
and always in my ear, zinging
higher pitched versions
of The Flight of the Bumble Bee ~~~

They are maddening red smears
aloft bothersome wings, tiny trumpeters,
nerve-twanging musicians
that won’t be ignored;

“Listen to this one.”

I want to silence them all,
saunter into the orchestra pit
and strip off all my clothes,
spread my arms out like Christ,
invite them to gorge —
and then, slap!, slap!, slap!

I want to crimson my body
with juicy satisfying blows,
bulging that blue vein in my temple,
crush them against my skin, flail wildly
screaming, “Shut up! Damn you!”

I want to scrape them into cheesecloth bags and squeeze.

We can lineup every one of those emaciated
African babies and inject the blood
back into them—start an Eastern Shore
revolution—wage a Human vs. Vampire war,
take back all that we have lost.