There is a pattern to my word
like the quick bone sew of
an old mother's spry fingers,
a silent diction that has letters from only
one alphabet, only one tongue
speaking at a time but I choke on it all the same;
there is the chew of larvae
ant eggs? fish? in
this stagnant water, where
mosquitoes breed into bites and itchy skin
and pale blush of cold mud smeared
like paint, like we paint ourselves in an attempt to
quell summer's little bite.
their buzz is the reason I cannot sleep;
it was the heat at first, legs caught in
swelter and a desperate glance at the moon,
cool and smooth--
and then it was stress,
swollen belly and bloated limbs,
the spider scrawl of jutting bones and my brother
is so young, so young, so hungry
and mother has lines on her face like the whisps of
a bird's talon, quick cropped lines of dead grass,
she is beautiful, but she is tired
and I cannot walk to her mother, to my brother, to the well
and the quick beat of a nighttime without breaking and
burning and bleeding myself; I am still too soft,
the rocks under my shoulders remind me
when I roll from my bed and they cut my arms--
but really, it's the mosquitoes.
it's chapped, dyselxic hands that swat at
dusty whines and then flick into curses, graveyards
and there is malaria in our little village now,
something that they say makes you sweat
enough water for a whole family to drink,
something that leaves you twitching and shaking,
dancing your way down into the dust and rites
and a solemn drum. I swat back sleep with the
back of my hand and shift
into the dusty whines that puncture my arms;
my words are tired. my eyes are closing.
I don't yet want to wake, nor sleep.
there is a pattern to my dreams
like the drums have been beat while I sleep;
I can taste the lick of the fire on my
dreameating tongue,
the sting of a bite on my skin.
